


Mark of Incision

by RosalinesRussianRoseElixir



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: ? - Freeform, Awkward Boners, Childhood Friends, Choking, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, I wrote it for me, Marriage, Michaels being creepy again, Parallel Universes, Possessive Behavior, Size Kink, Smut, Stalking, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Voyeurism, but y'all can read it too ig, i hate tagging things, nice michael?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalinesRussianRoseElixir/pseuds/RosalinesRussianRoseElixir
Summary: “Michael, is that you?” You called to the source of the noise, met with a ringing silence. It persisted until you turned again to a noise just as loud and just as quick, but still within range to scare you. Whipping around to face it, you were met with that pale face you kept seeing around. “There you are. I’ve been calling you!”-In a parallel universe, Michael Myers never killed his sister and marries his childhood friend, you. Growing close over the loss of his sister and his eye in a horrific car crash, you were the only one to accept him. A few years into your domestic bliss, Dr. Loomis; a physicist and theorist finds a way to link with only one other parallel universe. He decides that he will pick one with the most significant change in his life. A universe where he studies psychology instead of science. Where he studies evil in sterile white hospital rooms. After seeing a glimpse into another reality, his mechanical invention he used to achieve the impossible shorts out and something has changed. Exactly what, escapes him and he reassures himself that nothing is wrong.-This is a completely self-indulgent work featuring a female reader. It will also contain violence so be careful!
Relationships: Michael Myers/Original Female Character(s), Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You
Comments: 75
Kudos: 367





	1. Love Her Madly

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my second, even bigger pile of garbage. This one features a nicer Michael because I was craving writing some cavity-inducing, tooth-rotting fluff but then I realized Mikey isn't exactly a fluffy guy. So I made a convoluted plot to make him fluffy because in my fanfiction at least, I am a god. This chapter is mostly a collection of memories and backstory pieces to flesh out the relationship between you and nice!mikey because I didn't want the story to just start out of nowhere. This is also super long so I apologize. 😳

"If you're sure about all of this. And I mean sure. You are sure about it, right?" Your mother asked in a panicked series of questions.

You turned to Michael from your seat in the dining room as he sat in the living room, nursing a cooling cup of coffee your mother prepared for him. He winked at you with his good eye and you winked back. 

"I'm sure." Her face screwed up in disbelief, scoffing at you.

"Is there something you don't like about him mom?", defending the fiancé you had fallen for. You had known him and loved him for so long that you really couldn't see yourself with anyone else. You couldn't see life without Michael. He was someone you learned to trust and eventually you learned to love just as well. You knew he always had your back and in return, you had his. 

"Did you have to go for a mechanic? I’m scared, sweetheart. What if he doesn't make you happy? What if you don't know him as well as you think? You're so young…" 

You smiled at your moms' worry. Ever the mama bird, protective, and always on the lookout for people she thought wouldn't mesh well with you. Hurt you. Break your spirit. It has happened to her once and she couldn't bear to see you fall for her same mistakes. But she should know that you aren't the same dopey high school kid you were years ago.

"I'll be fine. And do you think I’d marry someone I didn't know anything about?"

"You've known each other since elementary school. Its… You know your father… He's someone else when he's… Drunk." She hesitated and you placed comforting hands on her shoulders. "I thought he was a good man too."

"He's not like that. Just… If things are bad I'll tell you. And if things are good, I'll tell you. Don't I always?"

"You do," she huffed and pulled you into a hug. 

She fell into her initial happiness about planning her daughter's wedding and you zoned out while she rambled on about her plans. You didn't much care. As long as you got Michael at the end of the day. You could get married under a freeway underpass and have your honeymoon at the dump for all you cared about wedding plans. But moms have a way of making that an impossibility. You were excited to have Michael in something that didn't sound as flimsy as 'boyfriend'. When you said boyfriend all the women who took their cars down to his shop perked up. You'd like to see their face at 'wife'. 

When you talked about marriage, however, Michael didn't seem to hesitate. you'd known each other forever and he could finally say he made a dream of both of yours come true. Childhood memories and sunny days in the Myers backyard, ice cream, and rusty swing sets. Quiet innocent conversations about what best friends forever looked like. Even as a child he was quiet and for a long time it seemed like just you and him. Now it is just you and him. Together, as you always were. 

Eventually, your mother ushered you out talking about the time and all the planning she had to do. 

"Your mom talks a lot." Michael murmured, traversing the walkway down to his classic chrome detailed car. A mechanics pride and joy.

"Hey, that's my mom! She's just excited about our wedding." You glared at him playfully, shoving gently at his shoulder. "And you should be too, you big baby." He smirked and leaned to kiss you on the cheek.

"I am excited, little baby. Nowhere as enthusiastic as your mom, but I'm just as happy as you are. I- I love you."

"I love you too, Michael.” A serene and tranquil expression fell over his face at your words and he eased into the hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let's go home." 

-

A small young girl looked out from atop the tiny ladder that connected to her tiny plastic slide. The neighbors, The Myers as they introduced themselves, let their son play outside but he wasn’t playing. He sat on the steps of his back porch, knees pulled up to his chest. From here you could see he had messy blonde hair and a bandage over one of his eyes, stark white against his face. He seemed lonely and sad. He had a few toys scattered in the grass he was ignoring and your heartstrings were pulled by the somber face he tried to hide in his folded arms. 

Carefully, you approached the fence separating your yard from his, not wanting to provoke him. 

“Hey.” You said in an even voice, fingers clutching at the metal wire. “What's your name?”

The wind rustled the leaves in the trees, the sun filtering through them. It was a nice day to play outside which was why your mother had suggested you go outside in the first place. She also said that you should try to be nice to the neighbor boy. She said he might be nice and fun to play with. After moving, you lost all of your old friends so she was trying to get you to make new ones. You would try and make Michael your first but for now, he was just looking at you like you were an alien. 

He turned left and right to see if you were perhaps talking to someone else but you merely kept facing in his direction, even when he looked around to find no one else. He pointed at himself and you nodded. 

“I’m Michael.” He mumbled and you could barely hear what he had said. 

“What?” You felt bad because he seemed hesitant to speak in the first place but he came closer to you. He figured if you were talking to him, you wouldn’t care about his eye. All the other kids at school distanced themselves after the accident, especially now that he didn't look the same. He was different and for a small town, it also made him a target. He had lost his sister in the same accident and his parents explained to him that he wouldn’t see her again. His parents didn’t seem to like each other and they fought sometimes. Life seemed empty. He just wanted to get away from that. To be distracted for a while.

“My name’s Michael.” He spoke just as quietly but he was closer so you told him your name.

“Do you want to play?” You smiled, unburdened by missing teeth and beckoned him closer. “We can play tag, or cops and robbers, or-” You were excited to finally have someone to play with. You were an only child and your mom and dad were always too busy to play with you.

For the rest of the day, Michael chased away your loneliness and you chased away his. You were fast friends. You played with his building blocks and marbles and he agreed to the games you wanted to play. When it was time for the both of you to go back inside, your mothers talked about how adorable the two of you were, unknowing of what loomed in the future.

\- 

“So, what's with you and the quiet guy?” 

“The quiet guy? Oh, you mean Michael? He and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. When we were kids we were neighbors. Mom ended up with something cheaper though.” She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear, shutting her locker behind her. You walked along the barren school corridor with your friend, another girl who liked to talk to you about the book she did not read before the quiz she did not study for. 

“Really? I totally thought you two were dating! You guys stand like this close to each other!~” Glancing down at her fingers, you see that they are touching each other, forefinger and thumb exaggerating the distance. You huffed. Though your close friendship with Michael could easily be misconstrued by outsiders, you had never spoken about being in a relationship. You both did what felt natural. Maybe the growth went unnoticed by you because of your proximity to him. You realized she was waiting for a response.

“That's not true.” She smiled. 

“Getting defensive, eh?”

“I’m not getting defensive, just stating facts.” you shuffled your half-finished worksheets around, chemistry textbook beginning to weigh heavily on your fingers. If Michael were here, you'd ask him to carry them. The thought is more telling than your friend's comment. Speak of the devil.

You caught him looking at you and your friend from down the hall. He's wearing that greasy pair of coveralls he wears to work. His work boots are just as stained but at least he had the decency to tie the sleeves around his waist so he didn't look a complete mess. He smiles when you meet his gaze. His smile perhaps wasn't so boyish as it was a smirk. The gnarled scar over his face ended just before it could meet his lips and you thought it made him look more rugged. 

"Look, there he is watching you like a hawk. Are you his little bunny rabbit?" She teased. You grimaced at the comparison. But you couldn't argue. There was something predatory about his staring. You wouldn't say it made you hot. You also couldn't say it made you cold. His blue eye glowed in the sunlight that fell in beams, the school windowpane offering the shadow to cover the other side. You elbowed her lightly and laughed at her words. 

"Shut up, Erica," you called to her as she walked off to class complaining about how Mrs.Edwards would mark her tardy. With the distractions, Michael snuck up on you, quiet as a church mouse. When he spoke you startled losing grip on the book you were holding.

"Excuse me miss, you dropped somethin'..." he watched for the glare you sent him and smiled genuinely, this time much more childlike than his lurid smirk. 

"Next time, I'll be sure to drop it on your foot." You snatched the book from his preferred hand and arranged it to align with the other things gathered in your arms. 

"Anyways, what brings you here? Shouldn't you be somewhere else? Class? Mr. Miller's auto shop?"

"You trying to get rid of me? I came all the way over here just for you to shoo me away," he laid his hand on your shoulder and you were very aware of how his fingers gently cupped your shoulder, his hand making yours look doll-like and fragile. You frowned and pulled him closer. 

"I'm not getting rid of you, Michael. Just teasing." You cupped his face in your hand and he, like an oddly affectionate cat, leaned into your touch. He brought his hand and grabbed yours kissing the palm. 

"You’re right, I have to be at Millers. But I'll come to pick you up, alright?" you smiled and nodded. 

-

The bell rang, Erica, shooting out of her seat and already making for the door. Mrs. Edwards, however, wasn't fast enough to catch her today so she sighed and dismissed the class, deciding to forego the ol’ “the bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do” schtick. Your fingers were quick to undo the lock over your locker, grabbing your class book and shoving your chemistry textbook in with the rest. 

Homework shouldn’t be so bad, with the teachers hesitant to augment the graduation rates and percentages by failing any of the required classes. They sort of stopped caring as most of the students cared more about the prom than anything. Walking down the hall solidified the theory, upperclassmen chattering about dates, dresses, and suits. Corsages and meaningless little baubles to adorn themselves. You were relieved to just spend the day with Michael, maybe play a record and talk. Maybe he’ll pass out and you can smear makeup on him, or draw on his face with a sharpie. 

By the time you made it to the front of the school, Erica was smoking a cigarette with her friend, Rachel. She gave you a wink as you approached Michael, sitting in the front seat, hand resting casually on the steering wheel. You rolled your eyes and stick your tongue out at her as she waved to you goodbye, your bookbag colliding with the backseat.

The Doors played over the radio, his hands drumming along the ridges in the leather. You watched the white and dull houses pass, green grass and white fences. 

“So, Mrs. Edwards still a pain in the ass?” Michael asked you, snapping you from your trance. You smiled. 

“If you’re asking, you already know the answer.” You said, feeling his car lurch into the driveway.

“Well, either we stay here, or we go somewhere else.” He propositioned and you remembered that if you went to your house, your mother wouldn’t want you and Michael to be alone with each other. You frowned. His mom wasn’t here so you could assume there wouldn't be any food. Popcorn would have to do. You’ll whine to Michael about it later. 

“I guess we can stay here. My mom’ll hover around if we end up at my house.” You popped the door, closing it behind you. “Is it ok if I leave my stuff in your car?” He nodded and went up to the porch, unlocking the door. 

He let you in, following behind you, observing the bee-line you made for the fridge. You peered inside to look at old pasta and some sodas, everything else being of little interest to your sugar craving tastes. The can of soda found itself in your palm, long fingers snatching the chilled can from your grip. 

“Hey, that's mine!” You grabbed for it, only to come up empty-handed. Michael smirked, holding it out of your reach. He was tall enough to open it in the air, drinking from the opening and looking you in the eye. “Mikey, stop it.” You whined. He licked the sugar from his lips and hands you the can. 

“Drinking too much sugar. Alright here, Imma go take a shower. You good on your own?” He chuckled, taking the now empty can and placing it on the counter. You nodded and ran up to his room. 

“Sure, but I’m picking the record. I want to hear… The Yardbirds? Or maybe…” He interrupted you with a groan. You knew he wasn't a fan of British invasion boy bands, yet he seemed to like Led Zeppelin just fine. 

“Please, I’ll listen to anything else.” You laughed and raced up the stairs. To the far right was his bed, covered in messy blankets and strewn pillows. The window, even with the pale curtains drawn, the afternoon sun still cast a light glow into his room. A few unique posters hang from the wall, including a few of the drawings you made when you stayed with him at the auto shop. His desk was a mess of papers and bits of shiny metal and tire keys. The pile of dirty clothes drew your eye, making him rush over and kick it back in the closet. 

“Ok, ok. We’ll listen to whatever you want. Just hurry up, I’m gonna get bored and put on The Yardbirds anyway.” You urged, collapsing onto his desk chair. “You finish the ‘choose your own story’ book yet?” You called as he moved to enter his ensuite, shoes already kicked off. 

“Nah, not yet. Can’t read it without you, you’ll kill me.” He closed the door as you laughed. You stood up and stretched, heading to his crate of records in the corner. Fingers flipping through different records. You guessed you could stand to hear Led Zeppelin III for the hundredth time. However, the banana on the cover of The Velvet Underground vinyl was tempting. Eventually, you settle on Cream, taking care to be gentle with the record, placing the needle down. You heard the door of the bathroom and turned.

Michael stood in the bathroom doorway, towel over his head, drying his hair.

“Michael, your hair is gonna get tangled,” you said, pulling the towel from his grip. His blond curls tossed over his eyes. You smiled, sweeping your fingers through them to slick them back, meeting his gaze, which was already focused on you. There was something in his eyes, you couldn't quite find words for. It was strange to see the unknown emotion consume his eyes and even his expression, his brows relaxing as well as the muscles in his strong jaw. He looked at you for so long, as if he had forgotten where he was and what he was doing. You tilted your head. Your hands motioned to drop but he caught them first. When he realized what he had done, he let your hands go, running his hands through his hair in a lame attempt to tame the loose waves. 

You sat on his bed, lips upturning at the almost nervous little expression on his face, accompanied by a barely-there blush, but a blush nonetheless. You rummaged in his nightstand drawer, looking for the book. Once you found it, you reclined and opened it to the dog eared page. Upon noticing the space beside you, you saw Michael with that weird trance-like expression on his face. 

“You gonna read it with me?” your arms placing the book back on your chest, instead of holding it above your head, the way you always did when the two of you started reading together. He snapped from it again, his stare meeting your eyes again rather than just in your general direction. 

He sat and laid belly down, and you followed, laying the book in front of both of you. You started reading from where you left off. 

“So, either we go down the dark road, or we follow the mysterious footprints. What should we do?” You flipped the page and waited for his response. You only received his silence. You cracked your head to catch his eyes already trained on you.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” He asked in a completely serious tone. 

“Huh?” you closed the book.

“I want you to be my girlfriend.” He stated this time, overcome with red splotching on his cheeks. You scoffed. 

“Did Erica put you up to this?” 

“No. I just want you and me to be together. I want to hold you, touch you, tell my mom you’re not just a friend. Tell the perverts at the shop that they don’t have a chance with you. Because you’re with me. And I’m with you.” He gave a mirthless laugh at the stunned expression on your face. He didn't know that you were not expecting this.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have ruined this.” He murmured. “I can take you home if you want.”

“Yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.” You laughed, tackling him in a hug, arms winding around his shoulders. “Did you think I’d say no?” You asked with a frown on your face, fingernail poking at his cheek.

“Honestly? Yeah.” He pats at the frown on your face with his thumb. “I thought that you’d say we make better friends. I don’t know, maybe you’d want someone better than me.”

“I don't talk to any guys besides you, Michael.” You grinned and patted his chest. “Anyway, touch each other? You’re the real pervert here.” you snaked your hands down to his sides in an attempt to tickle him. Unfortunately, he isn't so sensitive that way but you were. 

“Well, you tried.” he snickered, dexterous fingers finding your ticklish flanks. You convulsed and pushed at his hands. 

“Ok, st-stop or I will pee on- on your bed!” You got out between boisterous laughter, clutching at his arms. After the noise settled, you caught him staring. Pushing with all your might. You sat atop his thighs, arms propped upon his shoulders.

“You haven't kissed anyone, have you?” You raised an eyebrow at his inquisitive phrase.

“I don’t know, have you?” You asked accusingly. Michael furrowed his brow and gave you an incredulous look. 

“No. That’s why I’m asking you.” 

“You were my first kiss in fifth grade, you dunce.” You shake your head. “This is what my mom thinks I’m doing whenever I come to your house. Might as well confirm her suspicions.” 

“What does your mom think you’re doing?” You rolled your eyes. 

“Hot, passionate, steamy make-out sessions with my super cool highway star boyfriend I keep ‘lying’ about. Only for me to sit here and read books.” You leaned closer, a hair's breadth away from his lips, his eyes flicking down to your lips. “She’ll start to think I’m boring if I don’t start doing those things.” He slowly gathered what shreds of courage remained after his initial confession and brushed his bottom lip against yours. Your false facade of confidence crumbled at the contact, already trembling at the prospect of actually kissing Michael seriously, out of the context of not understanding what kissing meant. He sensed your hesitance and gently coaxed you closer to him. Chest to chest, he can feel your breath swell in your chest. He sealed his mouth against yours, finally shuddering at the feeling of your mouth, wet and sweet with the soda. He licked along, tongue sliding along your own, soft and warm. Languid and euphoric. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, trying to feel you even closer. 

You finally parted to catch your breath, gasping at the heat clouding over you both in a haze. Bringing your fingers to your lips, you blinked up at Michael, who nuzzled closer to you, eager to kiss you again. The softness in his expression became apparent again and you combed your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck and upwards. 

“I think someone’s more excited than they’re letting on.” You whispered, raising your hips in the air. Michael quickly lifted you off of his lap in embarrassment, grabbing a pillow and placing it over his lap. 

“You think we can finish that book I’ve been trying to read, my darling?” You laughed, reaching for the book that ended up on the floor. You knew when Michael was embarrassed, it was better to just leave it. He would feel even weirder about it than if you hadn't said anything. He nodded and couldn’t meet your eyes, no matter how casual you made the situation. 

“Yeah.” he held the pillow tightly, willing away the pulsing between his legs. You were surprised when he pulled you back to sit between his knees, his forearms looping over your torso. His nose nudged into your temple. 

“Which way do you pick? Dark road or mysterious footsteps?”

“Mysterious footsteps.”

-

Out in the stretching cornfields, the stars seemed to even outnumber the corn. Sometimes you thought the stars could light the world alone with how bright they shined. On the hood of Michaels's dad's old car, you could feel the cold leaching into your thighs, but Michael was warm enough to keep you from minding. You could feel his eyes on your stargazing profile but you were too shy to meet his gaze. You knew you’d flush on contact and then he’d tease you. Michael let the soft waves of affection wash over him as he felt you inch closer for warmth. He observed your flush anyway and you turned.

“Are you gonna stare at me all night?” You said, defensively turning your shoulder away from him. He watched and simply kept watching. The blush on your face was visible even in the dark of night and he thought there was nothing more enticing than feeling the heat of the blood underneath your skin. He leaned his head closer until he could place his lips on your cheek. You blushed even harder, giggling at the feeling of his curly hair tickling the sensitive skin of your neck. He smiled then showing rows of perfect teeth. 

“I can, can’t I?” He teased, like you knew he would, his eyes meeting your own. You lifted your hand and pet the scar across his face fondly with your thumb. “Stare at you until the sun comes up.” He muttered. 

His lashes brushed your thumb as he closed his eyes. You interpreted that as him hiding his eye, the milky one he lost in the car crash from a piece of warped and jagged metal. You figured it was payback time for that sly kiss he pulled earlier so you laid one over his closed eye, feeling him twitch and grab your hand tightly. 

When you pulled back, the blush across his cheeks made you feel smug. The memory of your first kiss with Michael came to mind at the sight of his almost shyness but he had long overcome that and pulled you into a deep kiss, this time, somewhere more intimate. His warmth enveloped you, the sweater you were wearing looking feeble in its attempt to warm you up in comparison to Michael's arms that held you to his broad chest. There was a subtle strength lying in the frame of his body. His mouth smashed a bit clumsily into yours, which you would attribute to eagerness. 

When he regained his bearings, however, he became more delicate, gently nipping your bottom lip, tongue slipping through your wet, parted, lips. He was careful with his teeth, trying to keep them from clacking into yours or from biting too hard. Kissing Michael felt like a warm blanket, fresh from the laundry on a gloomy day. It always felt comforting, his hands swept down to hold you in place as he pressed into you more intensely.

His breathing sped up and the air was tense with the roaming gaze. His eyes tracked over your face, searching for hesitance but he found none. Whatever he saw in your face struck him in a place that left him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. 'Vulnerability' was a concept that Michael often struggled with; not understanding how it related to himself in a way that benefited him. But at that moment, when he saw your gleaming eyes, swimming with stars; he knew that he could be vulnerable for you. Show you the soft parts of him you caught glimpses of when he was younger. The parts he hid from the guys at the auto shop and the few friends he gained at Haddonfield High.

It would be the first time he had uttered such an endearing term towards anyone, let alone even meaning it. He couldn't think of anyone else deserving of the words he would say to you. No one who had comforted him in hard moments, spent so much time with him, supported his interests, read books and listened to music he liked that they typically wouldn’t pay any attention to just so they could talk about it with him, looked at him without going straight to his eye, watched him fix cars for hours just to keep him company. No one stuck around like you. And he loved no one like you. 

His fingers gripped at your sweater, far too thin for his liking. He called your name with a slow blink and a finger gracing your neck, along the vein in your neck that he often loved to feel. 

“I love you.” 

At the shocked look and silence you gave, he felt betrayed for a moment. And then a pang of regret punched him in the gut. He didn’t think about the possibility that maybe you didn’t feel the same. That maybe he was being selfish and thoughtless again. Michael hadn’t thought that you might not like him as much as he liked you. His face fell and his brow furrowed at the tumultuous emotions swirling around him. 

“I love you too.” You broke out in a glowing smile, tossing your arms around his neck, pecking him chastely on his bottom lip. There was no one like you.

-

Three weeks after graduation, you could sense that Michael was hiding something. Now that school was over, Michael had taken the full-time position that Mr. Miller had offered him before senior year was over and began bringing you to the shop with him, to listen to music and drink coke all day. You sketched the cars he worked on, your feet thrown up on the bookkeeper's desk. The tiny fan on the desk whirred and jittered, the door wide open so you could let the music play for the both of you. But even with the music that played through the red radio on the desk, it was quiet in the auto shop. All the other guys were out for the day, not too many cars to work on anyway. You could hear the sound of Michael fumbling under the blue mustang with some wrench or tool, and the pattering of oil drops on his shoulder. He was so deep in thought he didn’t notice. 

You crept mischievously over with an oily rag, just for this purpose. You got on your knees next to where Michael lay, fixing the… thingy. Counting down in your head, suddenly you dropped to all fours and called his name. 

“Michael!” You were hoping for his forehead to hit the bottom of the car but you knew after many attempts that Michael was a little harder to scare. He merely turned to look at you, deadpan expression with just a dash of disappointment. “You’ve got oil dripping on your shoulder.” He angled his head awkwardly to where he could see it and rolled his eyes. He reached a hand out for the rag and slung it over his shoulder. Standing from your knee torturing position, you walked over to the rest of the boards the mechanics used to slide underneath the cars. 

“Mikey, what’re you thinkin’ about?” You propped your arms up to support your chin. He didn't relent, wrench grating against the metal underneath the car. “Michael?” You asked, this time with actual concern in your voice.

“Listen, you’re going away for college, right?” He interrupted your third sentence. There was an expression of light anger but you had known him for so long, you recognized that he wasn’t angry as much as he was upset that you might be leaving. You frowned and sighed.

“Probably.” You whispered, not meeting his eyes for that moment. When you looked up, you smiled and tilted your head. “I’ll be back though. I won’t be gone forever. Not even sure I want to go.” 

“Then don’t.” He gritted out through clenched jaws. “I- I- You can live with me. Mom’s moving out to go live closer to Laurie; says she needs her more than I do.” He sighed, hand white-knuckling the wrench in his hand. “House is already paid for. Miller says he needs someone to do the bookkeeping now that Lydia’s retiring along with him.” He grunts; as if struggling with the car part. You can tell he's nervous you’ll say no. “You can take over for her and stay with- with me.” He turned his head to look you in the eye suddenly and you were thrown off by the intensity of his stare. 

“You know my mom's gonna bite my head off.” You grinned, but as you thought about it, a future with Michael didn’t sound bad. He closed his eyes in subtle frustration. 

“Is she gonna make you go?” He opened his eyes, swiftly avoiding your pointed glances. He turned back to the car part, pawing at it. 

“I don’t know.” You groaned face collapsing into the cradle of your hands. “She might not mind if I got married. She’s always wanted grandkids. Sometimes even more than my advancement in education.” You joked, shrugging your shoulders. The dripping on his shoulder still hadn't stopped, he should have fixed it by now, but he was too busy glaring at it. 

“Would you marry me?” He asked and seemed to immediately regret it, no longer pretending to work on the mustang. His hands linked and sat over his chest. Why couldn't he just be normal for once?

“Sure, why not?” 

“Really?!” He shouted, forehead banging into the metal as you laughed. Finally, something that made him hit his head underneath the cars. 

-

Your mother fussed over your dress, as well as your aunt and Michael's mom, fluffing the skirt and adjusting your veil. Personally, your mother was someone not easily deterred so you let her fuss.

“Mom, I look fine,” you assured, twirling slowly in the mirror at her command. 

“I think I’m gonna cry.” She sniffled and you simpered. 

“I think you should hold the tears for the ceremony, mom.” you stepped down from the stool that sat in front of the mirror, finding the box of tissues the church so courteously left in the bride's dressing room. You handed her one and she wiped a stray tear away. Michael's mom was regarding you in the mirror and that strange unreadable countenance you recognized. It must run in the family.

“Everything alright, Mrs. Myers?” 

“Oh, I just- remember you both, so young. I thought you two would grow apart and just to see you two grow closer. It- it makes me happy. You make Michael so happy.” She sniffed. You beamed at her admittance. 

“Thanks,” you told her, the sentiment in your voice genuine. You nodded and tried to hold back the emotion, but you and Michael could cry together later. For now, the tears could wait. you checked the clock and your nervousness spiked. Two minutes until you had to walk out there. Your maid of honor, as you had no siblings, was Laurie, waiting outside for the procession to begin. Michaels best man was his friend from the shop, a fellow mechanic. You knew him from the times you went but not as well as Michael. 

“It’s time, c’mon your dad is waiting. You’re so beautiful.” Your mom handed you the bouquet and you clutched them in a death grip. You had waited for this moment yet you wished you could pass out and wake up to it being over. “I know, I know, tears for the ceremony.” She urged you into the hall. The flower girls tossed their petals and you clutched your father's arm. 

“Ready for the big day, princess?” You scoffed. 

“I wouldn’t be standing here if that weren’t the case, Dad.”

“Hell of a commitment, I don’t even really know the guy.”

“You didn’t want to get to know the guy, so…” You took small steps forward as the couples walked down the aisle. You and your dad were last and he thought that now was a good time for this conversation.

“He make you happy?” he interrogated and your face screwed up in disbelief. 

“Of course!” you whisper-yelled. “I’m one hundred percent sure I totally wouldn’t be wearing this dress if he didn’t at least make me happy.” 

“Alright. That’s all that matters to me. You’re satisfied with this ‘Michael’ kid, so am I. But he pulls something, I will kill him, you get me?”

“Dad!” 

“Shh, we’re next.” Your steps were measured as you kept a steady pace. Things were blurry through the veil, but when your father helped you up to the altar and you felt Michael's hands, something in you felt calm, your head tilting up to face him, things still unclear. Yet you knew he was smiling. 

The priest standing beside you cleared his throat and began the ceremony. A hush fell over the room as the wedding march began. You felt your engagement ring move and you already aware that Michael was fidgeting with it. It was a small semi-precious stone and you remembered being totally unsurprised when he presented it to you. In typical Michael fashion, it wasn’t a big public proposal and you preferred it that way. 

You stiffened as the priest asked Michael for the final vows. He didn’t bother to look to the priest, his stare transfixed on you. His thumb caressed the top of your hand. 

“I do.” He answered easily. The nervousness slammed into you like a truck and your stomach flipped. The priest turned to you and repeated the lines tailored for you this time. You shook but regained your composure. 

“I do.”


	2. Trampled Under Foot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was pathetic, the number of times he had touched himself to the picture you developed of you and him. Michael would never admit that he kept it under his pillow, folded to only include you.”
> 
> -
> 
> Michael and his queen ting celebrate their happy marriage. Meanwhile, mistakes have been made and Mikey is out of his cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I get to talk about nice Michael being a big ol’ creep and bad Mikey being just about as creepy. I have some more sap for you guys but less so this time, I really schmoozed it with the domestic bliss but all that’s about to go to shit so enjoy it while it lasts. Also thanks for the kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions! This is a very self-indulgent piece and I’m surprised that anyone really showed any interest in it. 😳🥺😏

“Do we have to stay for the whole reception?” Michael whined, nuzzling into your neck. Your mother and his own, in tandem, worked very hard on this reception. Despite your mother's efforts, a few guests had started to say their goodbyes, and Michael was eager to follow them out. He had booked a room at a hotel, an old bed-and-breakfast that was often left vacant. They built a highway that was much speedier than the backroad it was on and the popularity decreased, but it was still cute. You knew that he was excited to go and leave your parents behind. 

“We would go, but…” You didn’t have an excuse to stay. You had done all the traditional stuff, like the garter toss, (Michael both loved and hated that) the bouquet throw, the couples dance, father and daughter dance, and cake cutting. You and Michael made a mess of that. 

“I thought so.” He began to lay sloppy kisses on your neck and you elbowed him. 

“My mother is standing right over there!”

“So’s mine. She knows what we’re gonna do when we get out of here.” He chuckled, his intent not so easily hidden. His hand found the small of your back, his fingers spreading out. You shivered at the thought of how much space his hand took up on your back. Your face felt hot at his insinuation.

“That may be so, but that doesn’t change the fact that you have to be discreet, no matter how much you've had to drink.” You sat in the corner, having abandoned the raised table for the little privacy the corner table provided. 

“I want to leave… now.” He grumbled in your ear, picking you up bridal style; how fitting. 

“Michael!” Your drunk uncles whooped in the background at the sight of Michael carrying you out of the reception hall and all you wanted was to disappear. You supposed Michael would make that happen. He kicked the door open, your more sensible family members rolling their eyes and shaking their heads. 

He loaded you into the car, your dress fortunately not big and poofy enough to get stuck in the door. Starting the car, you were surprised to hear something rattling. Your cousin must have tied that can on the back of the car. You laughed at the sound. Michael smiled and laid a palm on your thigh, squeezing your thigh through your gown. You grabbed his hand, not to shove it away, but only to hold them. They were warm and scarred, with all the times he’s burned and cut himself on the delicate metal pieces. Strong with years of work.

When you pulled into the quaint building, you felt your stomach roil. You don’t think you had ever done anything so daring. Not to say that this was daring, you were… Well, married. At the same time, you were trying to maybe find a way out of it. It's not the 1600s anymore, no one could say you were not completing your ‘wifely duties’. Ugh.

“Are you nervous.” Michael said, not in a questioning manner. He looked you in the eye, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. You frowned and he raised his arm, crescents engraved from the pressure of your nails. 

“Listen, I haven't done this either. You and I are gonna have to figure this out. We don’t have to if you don't want to. Please don’t feel like I’m pressuring you.”

You swallowed the nervous spit welling in your cheeks and nodded. 

“C’mon let's go inside. I’m tired.” You tried to put on a happy front but you felt disappointed. You were allowed to want something from Michael too, right? You thought back to what Erica said. 

‘It doesn’t hurt. Especially when the guy is small. It just feels like… pressure. Like it’s not supposed to be happening- at first. But if the guy knows what he’s doing, it’ll feel right soon enough.’ You remember pushing her lightly and exaggerating your disgust that day. She had teased you for being a virgin. Said that most people lose it at 17. That felt strange. So young. Your mother had romance. Not that you could say it worked out well, but at least she had it. 

Michael moved to the bed in the cozy little room, dropping his stripped off jacket and tie. You kicked off your heels and you knew that refusing those horrible strappy ones your mom suggested was a good idea. Unfortunately, the zipper on your dress was not so avoidable. After a few futile attempts, you whined and pouted. 

“Michael, I need your help. This thing won’t come off.” You turned and found him already standing up, eyes like molten glass. Bright and fluid, roaming along your face and form. 

“Here.” He tugged the zipper down and immediately turned red. Your aunt would not stop pestering you about the bridal set of lingerie and you grimaced. It was cliche, white to accentuate purity and lacy for sensuality, silk for texture. Classic garters held up your stockings that Michael had a glimpse of earlier. The dress dropped to the floor in a plop and you picked it up. 

“Thanks,” you muttered, holding it up. You’d have to put it in the dress bag later. Michael stared in shock, looking like a wild animal caught in the headlights. His hands seemed to almost tremble and they raised to grab your hips. The dress dropped from your hands again. As you angled your neck to meet his eyes, you found it difficult to imagine the children you both used to be, the quiet boy you met that day. Michael had been small as a kid. But he had always been bigger than you, even if by a little. Usually, with the floof that was his hair. Now, he was much taller than you, looking down at you like a giant. His hands migrated to your cheeks, bringing you closer just to kiss you. His back bowed over you, lips molding to the shape of yours, tongue disappearing hesitantly into the dip of your mouth. He picked you up like a child and you gasped, parting from him, at the change in altitude. 

“Ok, now you’re just showing off.” You smiled, patting his shoulders. 

“Me, showing off?” He snapped the garter against your thigh and you hissed. Your back met the quilt against the bed underneath you. “And you’re wearing this stuff.” His fingers brushed against the hem of your bra and underwear, making you shiver. 

“It wasn’t my idea.” You whispered, letting him kick off his shoes and hover over you. He was back to that odd stare that burned holes into your skin; it made the shy parts of you curl up and shrivel in your stomach. It's like he can see through you and you try to meet the intensity. You’ve taken your attention off of his hands and without being watched, the palms of his hands slide down your torso to your thighs, unclipping the little clips on your stockings. You bring up your shaking hands to undo the buttons on Michaels's dress shirt, one by one, revealing the skin along his chest. There are scars littered along his chest and lower abdomen, from the crash, he stated a long time ago. White paled outlines run jaggedly along his tanned skin, your fingers striping them with soft touches as if they were still open wounds. 

With his shirt off, he tosses it behind him, the crumpled heap landing somewhere on the floor. He gazes down at you, curls and waves shrouding his eyes. In your distraction, he tore at your bra, literally ripping it in half and helping your arms from the straps. Your eyes widened and caught the mangled item sitting on the rug, looking about as pathetic as you thought it would. 

“Michael, that cost money!” You scolded noncommittally and he grinned. 

“I wasn’t about to embarrass myself by admitting that I didn’t know how to take it off.” He tried to tug your arms away from your chest and you slapped at his eager hands. 

“Well now I know, you idiot.” He kissed you in apology, reaching out to touch your chest. Your back arched at such an intimate touch, hands beside your own, warm and rough groping at sensitive flesh that you’ve never thought to stimulate. Low whines escaped through the seam of your lips, hiding away in his shoulder as best as you could. He tucked his head in your neck, fitting into you like a puzzle piece, kissing along your ear, and the ticklish skin on the column of your throat. He nipped it at, sucking and hoping to leave a deep purple mark. Your legs parted and squeezed at his sides as the clinking of his belt filled the room mingling with Michael's erratic breathing. His cheeks were flushed and the light film of sweat lent to the slow breakage of his calm façade. He licked down from your neck to your collar bones and sternum, to the buds that peaked on your breasts. Electric pleasure made your body move without your consent, your arms holding him to you. Wet heat danced across the complexion of your belly, then your navel. Nails scratched at Michael’s scalp, the pain flipping somewhere in his head to delight. 

Michael had thought of this moment for so long. Long before you thought of him in any kind of romantic way. It was pathetic, the number of times he had touched himself to the picture you developed of you and him. Michael would never admit that he kept it under his pillow, folded to only include you. When he focused on it he tried to imagine the texture of your skin on his tongue and the heat of your mouth. Between your legs. He wanted so desperately to be the first one you allowed to touch you like this and he tried to ignore the guilt of isolating you from the boys in your school. Of keeping you to himself as much as he could without seeming like some sort of psycho. Michael was somewhat aware that the way he felt for you was unhealthy but did it matter when you whined and moaned for more like this? If he made you feel like this?

His fingers parted your delicate glistening folds, tongue dipping into the reddening tissue. Bucking hips knocked up against his face and held your pelvis down with one hand. You moaned and whined, tugging roughly at the blond waves. You’ve never imagined such a thing happening. Maybe in the recesses of your mind, you thought about what it would be like for Michael to show you what he could do with his body that would ultimately serve to pleasure yours but never in your waking moments. And now, when you look down at Michaels head between your legs, sucking at the little button at the top of your slit, hooded eyes observing your expression, you feel the tears leak from your eyes, your mouth agape and leaking obscene sounds you didn't think you could make. 

He caught sight of the tears running down your cheeks and let go of your legs, lifting himself to your eye level. 

“Did I hurt you?” He murmured and you shook your head, hesitantly hooking your thumbs in his pants. He stilled and let you tug the loose pants from his hip bones, down past his legs. His breathing became more ragged than before. His voice choked in his throat as your comparatively small hand cupped the bulge in his underwear. Darkness loomed in his eyes and instinctively he bore down on you, pulling his underwear off. His hands latched into your knees and parted your legs, the burning fervor of your perhaps judgemental leer on the throbbing between his legs. The tip of it a bright red fading into a pink, the shaft daunting in its length and even its girth, a pumping vein on the underside. You felt as if you should avert your eyes, a strange shyness evoking itself at the sight. He took your wrist in hand and guided it leisurely to his crotch, giving you time to tug out of his grip. His breath hitched, your touch soft and light without his direction. The skin here was smooth, so unlike the rest of him, a dark scattering of hair at the base. The head was dampening with liquid and you smeared it around, listening to every little moan and gasp like taking sips from a sweet drink. Your strokes only worked to build up Michaels impatience and he slotted his hips into yours, bringing his hands down to grip at your palms. 

“You tell me if I hurt you. I’ll- I’ll stop, ok?” You nodded and tried not to wince when the tip of his cock snagged at your entrance. Though you were wet, the friction was too much and stung your sensitive center. Your head lolled back and you allowed him to press. He stopped and fucked into you with just the tip, using his body to push into you. Your inner thighs wished to close but his pelvis received the brunt of the pressure. He groaned low and deep into your ear, he gasped and moaned at the feeling of your heat enveloping him. Silken walls clamped down on him and he lost control, thrusting into you further. You cried out and he stopped, pulling back. 

“I’m sorry. Sorry.” he gasped out, his hands holding your entire hand in his palm. He reared back and pushed your knees closer to your chest, using the back of your thighs as leverage to rut into the give under your navel. He watched each feature of your face contort in pleasure, his movements speeding up gradually as not to alarm or hurt you. Little by little, he was careful to go slow, your hole swallowing his cock inch by inch. Eventually, you took all of it to the base, panting at the sensation overwhelming your senses. Your walls stretched to accommodate his size within you, a rasped groan leaking from his lips like syrup. One of his hands, wet and clammy from holding yours held you down by your throat, thrusting into you harder than he had before, leaning down to whisper in your ear. The headboard above your head bumped steadily into the wall, muffling his words but you could still hear some of them.

“Love you.” You heard that clearly, but the rest of his words were too obscure to hear. His display of affection had you clutching his hand and your other holding him as close as possible. The drive of Michael’s hips increased and he hit your sweet spot harder. You moaned long and loud, his thumb flicking over your clit. He growled animalistically into your neck, biting down roughly on the soft meat of your shoulder as you screamed out your climax. He licked the wound, pounding his hips into the plush overstimulated walls of your sex, dripping with your own satisfaction. Michael's eyes darkened with lust, the blissed-out droop of your eyes and your debauched lips bitten red, wet with his spit made him grip at your neck just a little bit tighter. He gasped and groaned, collapsing over you, releasing your throat from his grasp. He fell onto his side so as not to crush you. You took big lungfuls of air, letting Michael pull you into his arms to spoon you gently.

“Are you ok?” He whispered, tucking wet strands of hair behind your ears and you nodded sleepily. He was about to get up and bring water or something to clean you up with, just as your hand grabbed at him. 

“Don’t leave.” You coaxed and he went back to holding you, turning off the lamp. 

You drifted in his arms into a quiet sleep. He lay awake, watching the moonlight cast down on your skin. 

-

The autobody shop was hotter than usual, your hair tied back as much as you could and sweat beading across your neck, the rattling desk fan doing little to nothing to cool the small room for the papers, tickets, bills, and register. You organized wrinkled scraps of grease-stained paper into messy piles and then put them in manila folders, and then into drawers for future reference. You sighed and shut the said drawer, glancing at the shadow in your doorway, blocking out the light from the setting sun drifting in from the open shutters. 

“You finished up here?” Michael leaned against the door jamb. He too was sweating, the summer heat affecting you both. You knew the winter would make you regret hating this heat, but you fanned yourself all the same. 

“Yeah.” You muttered, stretching your arms upwards, trying to release the tension in your spine. Michael sat his hands on your shoulder, squeezing a little harder than he had to, but it felt like heaven. You stood up as not to end up staying in the heat any longer, craving the conditioner in his car, no matter how weak it was. 

“Are you done in there then?” You questioned, laying a kiss on his neck, his height standing in the way of your original destination. He smiled and grabbed his keys from the desk, shouting the last goodbye to the other guys in the shop. You waved and clambered into the passenger seat. Michael pulled his coveralls down to his waist, tying the sleeves around his waist. He shut the car door and turned the key in the ignition, laughing lightly at your hand already reaching for the knob that controlled the AC unit in the car. Your shorts made for that awful sticky feeling on the bottoms of your thighs and it’d be hell to peel your legs from the leather upholstery. You cringed to imagine it. Michael peered over at your expression and grumbled. 

“Just this once.” You turned and looked at him questioningly. At the coming stop sign, he slowed to a halt. “You,” He pointed accusingly at your clueless face. “Are going to complain about how much it hurts to get out later. So… Just this once, I’ll let you put your feet on the dash.” he gestured to the dashboard. You gasped sensationally. 

“Is car freak professional, Michael Myers, letting his very own wife put her feet, her dirty shoes, on his precious leather dashboard?” You immediately swung your legs up, making him wince.

“Oh, c’mon. You’re making me regret ever allowing you-” 

“Too late, no take-backs.” You smirked, relishing in his scowl. He drove on to your neighborhood, turning down the familiar street of Lampkin lane. The yard looked pitiful and the gutter looked close to falling off altogether.

“When are we gonna fix the house?” He drove into the driveway and clicked his tongue, seeing the collapsing gutter and fading house paint. Michael was silently happy you referred to his house as the house. Which to you might not have meant anything special but for Michael, that solidified the idea that what was his was yours and what was yours was his. That you were his. He smiled.

“Whenever you want.”

-

The next morning, your terrible alarm clock rang and you smacked it. The ringing stopped, but of course, Michael slept much like a rock. Unmoved and snoring away. You shook him awake and he groaned. If you had to suffer this fate, you wouldn’t do it alone.

“You said we could fix the house today.” He mumbled an excuse. “Wake up.” You continued to shake him, ignoring the arm flopping out towards you. 

“You want to fix the house now?” He asked, unbelieving of your current state: awake. “What time is it?” He rasped and cracked his eyes open to look at the clock. He saw the time and crashed down on his pillow again.

“Michael, you know what you told me yesterday?” There was a moment of silence, then he inhaled weakly. 

“What.” 

“Whenever you want. You said we could fix the house whenever I want.” He groaned, heavier this time, scratching his chest. He yawned and raised up on his elbows.

“You’re lucky I love you so much.” He kissed your cheek and sat up entirely. You grinned and slid off of your shared bed to shove some old clothes you wouldn't mind getting dirty on. You and Michael drove to the local hardware store, picking out several odds and ends and a few buckets of white paint to paint the house with. 

Together, you both pulled the ladder from the garage, setting it up against the front of the house. 

“You can do the top and I can do the bottom. Are you sure you won’t fall through the porch roof?” You furrowed your brows worriedly, watching as Michael took tentative steps up the rungs of the ladder. He stopped and glared at you from his position. 

“Please don't say that as I’m about to step on the roof.” 

“Thought you said you weren't scared of heights.” He scoffed. 

“I’m not.” He pressed his lips into a line, stepping onto the roof.

“Michael, I think you forgot the paint.” He heaved a sigh, making his way back to the ladder, looking down on your mocking smile, holding the roller and bucket of stirred paint he forgot. He clenched his fist and released, reaching his hand out for the roller, painting tray, and bucket, feeling nervous as you climbed half of the ladder. You winked and disappeared under the roof he stood on, tying your hair back to start the long process of painting the Myers home. 

Finishing the first floor and whatever else you could reach, you began to clear the overgrown weeds and gather them in a pile to dump later. By the time you were done, Michael had finished painting and fixing the gutter. He walked up to you, throwing an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into his side. 

“Looks nice. Mom would be proud.” He squeezed you to his flank and you wrapped an arm around his waist. 

“We should take a picture.” 

Your neighbor took a picture of you and Michael standing on the porch with your canon camera and Michael framed it to hang on the wall against the stairs.

-

Finding a sufficient power source for his inventions always proved more difficult than it seemed. Dr. Samuel Loomis, however, was determined to get what he always wanted. The existence of another world. Another reality where he hadn’t chosen a path he thought was meant for him, fated for him to follow. He didn't want to explain the fascination. he feared it led to unanswered questions about his need to escape the mundane. In another world, he was someone else. He wondered just how many paths he had traveled, uninterrupted by the thought of this dreamlike idea of another place, so similar yet entirely different to his own. Then those idiots at the Grove Institute of Technology could bugger off about his 'crazy' ideas. He was right goddammit and he'd die proving it if he had to. 

The machine whirred to life, lethargically because of the basic electric system he was using to power it; a nuclear source, he feared would cause more problems than it was worth so he settled for the electric generational power. Blue sparks flew from wires and intricate pieces and he backed away. He shoved on his safety goggles and stood, scribbling notes. Today marked a new dawn. A new dawn in technology as man knew it in this day and age. The portal opened and suddenly he was left to a sterile white hallway, empty but the bustling and mad ramblings of the people inside of the hallways reached him despite the distance. He pulled off his goggles to look around.

He espied by chance, a man that looked like him walking towards him, in attire fitting of a medical doctor of some sort. He supposed in this lifetime, he chose medical or behavioral science. He watches the encounter, mystified at the impossibility of being here. He listens to himself accurse a patient with evil and the patient does not respond. The unresponsive patient turns, however, to watch him. The second Loomis outside the tiny window on the door. Then suddenly, everything is thrown out of balance. His machine had failed him. The machine had caused more problems than it was worth. 

-

The car he stole from the man in the blue suit he also stole rumbled loudly. But he did look the part. It was a red old truck that protested whenever he pressed on the pedal that made it move forward, uncaring of the constant kickback the thing offered. The need to cover his face overwhelmed him as the people in the cars beside him looked up at him. He hated that itchy feeling of eyes on his face. Of judgemental stares. The cloudy eye had failed him and it also attracted the attention of random people in their little cars. He remembered the way home from this familiar road, following signs to his hometown of Haddonfield. He wasn't quite sure why he was out of the Institute or why it looked so different from what he remembered it looking like but he didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He was out and that was what mattered. 

Night had fallen on Haddonfield and the darkness suited him. He pulled to a stop in front of his house and glanced up to see another car in the driveway. The house was strangely beautiful, not at all like the barren bones of his old house. The grass in the yard was green and the slightly gray house he was used to was now gleaming ivory. The fallen metal pipe along the front was repaired, previously cracked and broken windows that remained dark were intact and glowing with warm light. 

Like a shadow, a formless being, he wandered up to the kitchen, peeking into the window, watching as a woman and man sat eating food. Hot and steamy, nothing like the cold tasteless meals at the ward. They talked and he strained to hear their words. They sounded happy and when he scanned over the man's face, the man… looked like him. The same curly hair, just cleaner and longer, the same white cloudy eye, scarred over and accompanied by the blue one. The same height but perhaps a little tanner. Days spent in the sun. He sat across a woman who smiled at him around a mouthful of food. She drank from her cup and stood to collect the man's plate, coming up to the window he stood in. 

“Michael, when are you-” Michael. So, the man shared not only his appearance but his name as well. And had a better life too. Did he kill his sister too? Had this Michael been forgiven for the act that earned him life in Smith's Grove? Given another chance? He wondered if this Michael heard the voices. Felt the itch. 

Her face was warm like the light in the windows, inviting him to touch it. The voices whispered in his head and he ignored them to stay and regard her through the thin glass barrier. She glanced up at the blackened window, the lights above her reflecting too clearly for her to see out. Michael respired heavier as she breathed on the glass, drawing a smiley face in the white foggy patch. She smiled and turned to her mirror version of him. His fingertips drew up to the glass where her own had just glazed over. 

Eventually, they retreated upstairs, turning the lights off in their home. He supposed they had gone to sleep. He walked noiselessly back to the vehicle he came in, trying to remember where Mt. Sinclair cemetery was located.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for any kudos, comments, or bookmarks!


	3. Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Umm, nasty shit? Some nasty shit. Michael begins his stalking and claims his first victim. You finally see the Haddonfield boogeyman in all of his glory and Halloween approaches. Loomis realizes that death may come to your little town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a murder scene. Be careful if this isn’t your type of content!

“Happy Birthday to you,” You sang lightly, taking slow steps to the kitchen table, walking to Michael who had just come home from work. Just barely sitting down for a glass of water. He turned to see you, carrying a vanilla and strawberry cake, a single candle swirled in blue and white wax burning away. He looked surprised and you were overjoyed that he was, your tiny plan coming to fruition. You smiled wide as he moved back so you could place the cake in front of him. 

“Happy Birthday to you,” The sun streamed down in the cooling autumn weather, orange like the leaves dusting the street. Today was October 19th, Michael’s birthday. You had sung the same song every year on this day since he was six. He pulled you down to sit on his lap, wrapping arms around your body to hold you. You clung to his neck in an embrace, kissing his temple. 

“Happy Birthday, dear Michael, Happy Birthday to you.” He blew his one candle out as you finished your song, turning to kiss you properly. He didn’t say anything, rubbing your side. His expression was tender; an eased smile on his lips.

“I love you, Michael.” You twisted one of his blond curls on your index finger. 

“I love you.” He muttered, brushing a thumb over your cheek. You looked back at the cake, just now realizing that you had forgotten the knife. Rising from his lap to retrieve it, Michael’s hands held you fast. 

“I forgot the knife.” You said, finally freed from his grip. You went to the kitchen, looking in the wooden knife block you got as a wedding gift. You picked an average-sized knife returning to the small dining table, handing it to Michael. 

“The first cut belongs to the birthday boy.” You teased, ruffling his messy curls, watching him slice into the treat. “Did you make a wish?”

“No. Got everything I want right here.” He dabbed your nose with the cream from his cake, making you laugh. He came closer poking his tongue from his mouth and you leaned as far back as you could. 

“No! Don’t you dare!” You batted him away.

“If you do, you won’t get your present.” You admonished him and he perked up at the mention of a present. You wiped the cream from your nose on one of the fabric napkins you kept at the table for such messes. He put one slice from the small cake on a plate, setting two forks into the sugary treat. You shared the slice and as he finished, he stood, picking you up with him. You exclaimed, doing your best to cling to him. He has proven in the past that he was strong enough to carry you yet he hadn’t carried you upstairs yet. 

You chuckled in disbelief and nervousness as he set you on the bed. He had hardly broken a sweat, smashing his lips onto yours. On either side of you, Michael cages you in. His tongue invades the wet satiny insides of your cheeks, rooting around the surfaces of teeth. His hand swathes over your forehead and covers all the way to your ear. His lips trail down to the beginning of your neck. You shook your head and he backed off. 

You got up and sat him down, tentatively getting down on one knee in between his legs. Your other knee joined, adjusting yourself so that you were more comfortable on the carpeted floor. Tilting your head up to see him, his pupils were blown and his mouth slightly ajar in shock. Your hand skimmed up his torso to catch the zipper on his coveralls, tugging it sluggishly. Biting your lip, you slid your fingers into his underwear, pulling his hardening cock from the blue fabric of his coveralls. You stroked it for a while, kissing the very tip like you would a letter to a lover. You angled the head to land on the soft little pool of your tongue. It tasted a little salty, like skin and kind of strange like someone else’s spit welling on your taste buds. He gasped and groaned, tone drenched in eroticism. You could tell Michael so desperately wanted to grab your hair, instead clenching his hands so hard, his knuckles turned a shade of light yellow. Grabbing his hand with your free one, he opened his eyes. 

“I’m not quite… um sure what I’m doing but it’s your birthday so you can- can show me what to do. You _are_ allowed to touch my hair.” He brushed your cheek and put a thumb on your bottom lip. Prying your lax jaw, he pets at your lolling tongue. Did your husband have an oral fixation, you wondered? You sucked playfully on the tip of his thumb, a curtain of haze falling over his form. He was far away but right here at the same time. His erection jutted out towards you, as you took it in your mouth again, lapping and steadying his cock with your palm. 

“Shit- please don’t- don’t stop.” He fisted your hair in one hand, his arm propping his upper body. His head fell back, Adam's apple jumping in his throat. Gradually, you let him move your head down his length, your throat struggling to accommodate him. He seemed to like the sight of you, flexing his jaw. Who said he could be silent? You took him deep enough so he hit the back of your throat, stopping airflow for a moment. You hummed to keep from gagging, glancing up at his face, internally pleased as his brow furrowed and he whined lightly.

“Just- just like that, feels good. Fuck...” For a moment, Michael appeared almost angelic, like a marble statue or a painting of some beautiful youth. You dug your nails into his knees, feeling him shift and thrust into your gaping lips. His thighs shook, his knees spread, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead. You thought he was close but apparently not. You kept going as you were but you eventually stopped and heaved for air, stopping his bucking hips. 

“Are you gonna finish? My jaw is starting to hurt.” you panted and Michael looked a little embarrassed. He had been thinking about trying not to cum so this would go on for longer but he just now realized that this probably wasn’t comfortable for you. His complexion was tinted red as he released your hair. He nodded, sighing shakily, lowering your mouth, and jerked him with your hand at the same time. Michael panted and moaned, nearly ripping the comforter beneath him. Cautious to not touch him with your teeth, your tongue poked out, drool leaking down to your chin. He finally grunted and seized your hair, shouting as he came on your tongue. You didn’t know what to do with his spend in your mouth. Would he be upset if you got up and spit it out? He hadn’t done that to you, had he? You reluctantly swallowed the odd tasting liquid, his arms lifting you up and sitting you on his thigh. Michael surprised you by kissing you directly on your lips. He swept your hair back to rest away from your eyes. 

“This is gonna sound shallow because of what you just did for me but I’d do anything for you. You mean the world to me.” You laughed and nuzzled into his neck.

“You’re such a sap.” 

“Only for you.” 

-

In this world, Judith was still dead and her grave had dried flowers over it, the tombstone was exactly where it was when he pulled it out from the hole it was in. Last year, if the newspaper he swiped meant anything. In 1978, he escaped from Smith’s Grove and killed those teens but in this place, no such thing had happened. The kids didn’t fear the white mask looming over the town because it had never existed. Before now, he thought. A year had passed, making 1979. He wondered if the blonde girl from the year before still lived around and as he walked by the home she was walking from when he first saw her, there was a family living there. Still the Strodes, but no girl. Childless, it seemed. He wouldn’t be able to finish what he started, living in a place where she didn't even exist. He couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. A new obsession would be more interesting, he reasoned. 

He took advantage of the fact that no one knew of him or suspected anything. There was no police force looking for him and most importantly no Loomis. He felt a sense of freedom here, to do as he pleased with no interruptions. No one was even aware that he had killed his sister. Heeding the call in him would be top of his list if it weren't for the date. Ten days until Halloween. Patience was a specialty of his and he could stand to enjoy his time unshackled. With no Loomis, however, he might not even be caught. For now, he would shadow his double and the woman living with him. The truck would serve as a place to stay while he laid low. 

The hardware store in his town was still there and he smashed through the glass barring his entrance. An alarm sounded but he paid no mind to it, finding it more annoying than anything. He moved leisurely through the aisles, looking through the various items, determining from weapons and tools alike. He selected the familiar mask, several kitchen knives, rope, whatever was in the register, and someone’s lunch sitting beneath it. A simple sandwich but food all the same. He should have known that the presence of food meant that someone might have still been inside the shop. The mask was brand new and smelled of fresh latex. The world was dark for a moment and from inside of his mask he could hear his blood rush in his eardrums. Something akin to excitement consumed him, hands tightening around the wooden handle of the long butcher knife. 

An employee was mopping in the back and the abandoned mop was on the floor discarded in a hurry. Michael looked at the mop and turned slowly to an adjacent closet. He crept closer, gripping the knife in an iron grasp. The feeling was invigorating. He knew that whoever had been mopping had either left or hid inside of the tiny closet. He opened the closet slowly, hiding behind the door, careful to keep the shadow of his boots from showing underneath the door. The curious man peeked his head out. Obviously too young to be the owner. He would be easier to dispose of then.

He stepped out of the closet and as he exited entirely, Michael shoved his knife into the back of his worker’s vest. The knife lodged itself into the flesh and muscle but missed anything vital. He dropped to his knees, choking out noises of pain. Michael stepped over the pooling blood and the fallen prey’s legs, tugging him up by the collar of his shirt. The man released some begs and whimpers, tears leaking down his cheeks. Michael stabbed him in the gut. A boot on his chest sent the smaller man flying back into the closet; scattering bottles and cleaning supplies. 

-

Dark nights like these seemed to take an ominous tone. Something inside of you, a primal instinct that was deeply hidden within spiked and bristled. With Michael taking extra hours at the shop, the house felt quieter than usual. It was skeletal; empty in a way that brought chills and a light anxious cramp to your stomach. At least the radio was here to keep you company, breaking the silent lapse that would otherwise suffocate the whole house. Jefferson Airplane played their popular song ‘Somebody to Love’, bouncing along to the beat.

Through the kitchen window, you could see a cat cross your yard. At first, the trotting shadow scared you, the way it poked from your peripheral vision but you felt silly watching the almost dancing way it walked along the grass. You smiled, disregarding the old saying. Black cats brought bad luck. 

The metallic tap for the warm water pushed back to stop the flow, no more dishes to be wiped and cleaned. You dried your hands on a spare towel but froze when you heard the yowl of a startled cat. The hiss of the poor thing sounded hostile and you watched the little green-eyed shadow dart across the backyard again. Strange. You figured creatures of the night like that must be used to all of the other things that crept around the shadows along with them. An internalized shrug swept the encounter back to its unimportance. You turned to see a figure, the most familiar and comforting thing you'd seen all night. Although, the mask made you stop short. 

"Hey, Bigfoot, what's with the mask? Is that supposed to be William Shatner?" you smirked, the white stark thing hiding a sure smile. But he remained frozen, unmoving. You came closer and the deep breathing became louder with every step in his direction. His cover-alls were weirdly clean; usually, he was covered in weird oily stains head to toe but you thought he might have switched out. He must have washed them to impress you. What a suck-up. You supposed that this must be his Halloween costume, not that this made any sense. You came up to wrap your arms around his shoulders, his breath whistling through the little holes in the weird mask he was wearing. 

His eyes were shaded by the mask and you couldn't track if they were even on you. You tilted your head in confusion, raising a brow at his insistent silence. He tilted his head with you, mirroring your movements. 

“Michael, are you ok? Tired?” He declined his head to look down on you which you took as a yes. Your eyes crinkled with a smile, patting his arms and attempting to kiss the cheek of his mask, barely making the mark because of his downturned head. For a few seconds, it seemed like he stopped breathing and then as if gaining composure, took a deep inhale. 

“I’ll be up in a few. Lemme just put some stuff away.” You turned and when you peeked back he was gone as if he had evaporated. Vanishing from thin air like a phantom. Since when had Michael been able to walk so quickly? A few minutes later you heard keys in the knob and you thought nothing of it at first. Just Michael coming home. Hadn’t Michael already come home? Wearing that odd mask? Leaning out from around the wall to see him walking in and closing the door, your face twisted in more confusion. This had to be some sort of joke. You rolled your eyes. He smiled upon seeing you, coming closer to wrap his arms around you. 

“Not very funny, Michael.” You scolded, letting him pull you closer and kiss you on the side of your throat. He hummed and leaned back to see your face, putting his hands on your shoulders. 

“What’s wrong?” His clueless gaze disrupted his contented haze at finally being home. You scoffed. 

“Where’s the mask.” You put one of your hands out, expecting him to give it to you and laugh it off as an early failed Halloween prank. To pat you on the back, proud that you were not so easy to fool. Michael did no such thing. He scratched the back of his neck and looked at you as if you had grown a second head. 

“What mask? What are you talking about?” You squinted. You were getting sick of his feigned ignorance. A joke could only last so long.

“You came in here wearing a mask and didn’t say anything. If you were trying to scare me it didn’t work. I am surprised by how silent you were. How’d you get back outside without opening the front door?” You crossed your arms and marveled at the bewildered look on his face. “The keys were a nice touch.”

He laughed. Then he shook his head, leaning against the wall. 

“You got me.” For a moment you grinned, thinking you had caught him. “Clever. You almost had me.” Your face immediately fell. He thought you were joking with him. You shook your head and warmed up some leftovers from when you had dinner earlier. You glared into the window and Michael waved his hand in front of your face. You smiled to placate him but your eyes wandered to the backyard. 

-

The smoke had cleared enough from him to see but Dr. Loomis could still hear the little zapping sounds of live wires and sparks flying. He waved his arm around to get the smoke away from his nose so he wouldn’t breathe in so much. He tugged the goggles up before he wiped soot from his mouth. He coughed and stood up as the machine had knocked him on his ass. Scattered papers were all around and he couldn't remember having quite so many notes. He found a disorganized file with a slightly singed manilla folder still trying to gather the notes. 

He read them in his chair, notes from the mirror version he supposed. They detailed the progress or should he say the lack of it with a patient named Michael A. Myers. It had gotten to the point where the doctor had thought him some sort of demonic entity. Just because he was… voluntarily mute? The boy had been institutionalized since the age of 6 and in 16 years had not uttered a single word. Nothing would make him speak and it made the scientist question what such methods the good doctor had tried. Unspeakable it seemed as they are vaguely detailed. Among the pages were different dose measures for anti-psychotics and a review of his victims. Victims? 

He wiped a hand on the back of his head as he read through a series of first-hand and police reports of several teenagers this Michael character was responsible for taking the lives of. All in a state of undress and within proximity of each other. He had shot him six times with a small revolver and the man was unphased, didn't even scream. He raised his eyebrows; impressive. When he was recaptured, he was much the same, staring at walls and going through the motions. An odd specimen by any account but even he, someone who knew little to nothing about human behavior, knew that this could have been handled a little bit better. He couldn't say how, but not like this.

A few photographs were paperclipped to the last page, a picture of a mask speckled with blood, a kitchen knife with a ruler beside it, also rusty with blood, and a pair of coveralls, bullet holes like the doctor had said. The rest was too visceral to look at, tossed back on his work table. He could only be glad that he had left the silent man where he sat. Wordless and blank for however many years his heart would beat for. 

-

The sun had fallen into the horizon, dusk covering his home in soft fading purples and oranges. The crickets chirped to signal the dying daylight, his boots crushing blades of grass in a backyard that he could have called his own. The plants are too healthy, the light from the windows too bright. He slipped inside the house, the air warm in comparison to the chilled fall weather outside. The woman in the kitchen clamored about, fussing with some plates in the sink. She washed them dutifully, even smiling as she did it. Michael came a few inches closer, observing the way she tucked strands of hair behind her ear, fingertips wet enough to darken the small lock of hair. Her hips swayed, moving to a beat he couldn’t care less about. She sighed and shook the water from her hands, turning the tap off. As she finished, she spun around to see him. Surprisingly, instead of screaming like he thought she would, upon seeing him, she beamed. And then she smirked a little, eyes focusing on his mask. It was supposed to be frightening, why was this a joke to her?

She said some words that he didn’t respond to. He stayed rooted to the floor, motionless as she came forward to embrace him. Michael had half a mind to throw her off but she leaned out of the hug, tilting her head. She must be curious about his muteness. He tilted his head with her to keep the mood light-hearted, not wanting to break the spell she was under. Her eyes were inquisitive and he wanted to put his hand around her throat and see them flooded with fear. To squeeze and lift her in the air and watch her legs kick. Back the woman against the wall and hold her to his frame. She patted his arms and he had heard it. She had said his name. Michael. She assumed that he was her husband. 

Michael lowered his head to see her raise up on the balls of her feet and kiss the side of his mask. He felt strange. Something in him screamed to do anything to make her regret mistaking him for her husband. He could feel her nails dig into his torso a little as she closed her eyes and puckered her lips against the white latex. And just like that, it was over. The first affectionate gesture he had received in well over 10 years. 

Returning to her tasks, she turned her back to him and he listened as the voices whispered to him to grab her by her hair. He defied them to watch for just a few more seconds. She put away various little things and as he sensed she was going to turn around, he left her sight, dipping behind a wall at the last second. He made it to the stairs silently looking around at the photographs. There were wedding photos of her and the man who looked like him; vacation pictures, family photos. Those caught his attention. There was his mother, older than he remembered, smiling and his father as well. They never came to visit him after the police took him away and Loomis locked him in the room at Smiths Grove. He was in the picture but not really. He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled. And there was the girl. Laurie. He took the frame in hand, removing the cardboard in the back looking at the names. 

‘Myers family. Peter, Edith, Michael, and Laurie.’ 

She was his sister here. There was no way of telling if she was his sister where he came from. He hung the picture again, creeping up the stairs to see more photos. One particular one seemed to spike his interest, a big wedding portrait of the woman downstairs, smiling brightly. A bouquet of flowers was in her hands and gleaming rings shone on her fingers. She looked… happy. So did his counterpart but there was something in his eyes that reminded him of himself. That blackness that Loomis said lingered in his gaze.

Inside of a frame with a small dried flower sat a picture of Judith. Apart from the others, he noticed and it was apparent that this Michael hadn’t killed her. The way this photo was kept could be seen as reverential, in memory of her. He passed to their bedroom, stopping to glance in Judith's old room. Repurposed into some type of office. Michael stared at the spot on the floor she fell down on when she bled. Entering their shared bedroom, he looked in the closet, at all the pairs of coveralls. He had to be an engineer or a mechanic to have so many. Anything else on that side was plain and boring. Spartan almost. On the woman's side of the closet, the clothes were more bright; vibrant. He brushed fingers down the various fabrics. He hesitantly sniffed at the collar of a blouse and felt blood rush around his body. It wasn’t that strong, deluded by laundry detergent. Though weak, undeniably a scent that belonged to her. In his fingers, he plucked a single strand of hair, winding it around his index. He pushed it into the breast pocket on his coveralls. He moved over to a dresser, a vanity-like table in the corner just for the woman. 

On it, he found several little bottles and sniffed at each one. In the drawers, were meaningless items he didn't care for but inside one of them sat a ribbon. Light blue and silky. It smelled like her and he surmised that she probably wore it in her hair. He scrunched it in his hand. 

He could hear them arguing downstairs, not quite arguing but exchanging words. They began to mount the stairs and he hid in the office. They talked some more, laughing and readying for bed. And then he heard his copy murmur and whisper to her. She giggled and Michael crept to the door. In the unlit hallway, he blended in, invisible to the couple in the just as darkened room they were in. He caught sight of her, half-dressed in the moonlight. She wore a thin slip, nearly translucent. This was different from any of those teens he caught with their pants down. Hands nearly identical to his pulled it over her, leaving her in a simple pair of underwear. They kissed and touched, whispering to each other. Michael felt a throbbing in his lower abdomen, migrating in between his legs. The beating in his chest, he suspected, was irregular. 

Her underwear had come off at some point, clutching the handle of his knife until it could have broken in his palm. She kissed her husband with fervor as if she could die if they didn’t. And then she allowed his mirror version to… penetrate her. Rub her as she cried out. Was she in pain? He laid her on her side and carried on, giving Michael a better view of the front of her form. She was subdued and pliant, her face a blissful one, her hair tossed about messily. Her skin looked soft to the touch. Her body shook and her hands pulled at his counterparts similar blonde curls. Eventually, they ceased, sweating and holding onto each other. Like a wraith, Michael descended the stairs and exited the home, a need scratching at him. 

-

The news played in the background in Loomis’ home. A woman in a blazer gave news reports from around Livingston County. The top story tonight was a burglary that took place in Haddonfield. The reclining chair was fully stretched out, shoes off and night quiet. He was reading a book, turning the pages as he finished each one. But the woman's words gave him pause. 

“Earlier today, at approximately 3 o’clock, a local hardware store was burglarized. An employee was killed in what is believed to be a botched robbery. The Sheriff's Department has confirmed that the register was emptied and several items have gone missing. Among them, are a mask, some knives of the same type, and rope. The suspect has still not been caught yet but authorities think he might have left town to avoid being captured.”

He stopped trying to read as the news anchor mentioned the stolen knives. The mask. The rope. He sat up and adjusted the seat to allow him to walk. His briefcase by the door was quickly brought to the coffee table and unlatched. He sorted the papers from the photographs. That horrible red-stained knife and the bloody mask seemed to mock him. Whatever killer he invoked had already taken someone's life. He brought him here. The reality dawned on him. He had to find the other version of the man. Perhaps the family had never left the address that Loomis was obsessed with. The house on Lampkin Lane. 

-

In the morning, when his wife had not woken up yet and the world was still mostly asleep, Michael would look at her peaceful visage. On the rare occasions when he would wake first, he’d regard her in the budding light. Murmuring and breathing so softly. She was every bit the girl he loved. And the girl he swore to love forever. He could still hear her childish voice promising that they’d be friends til’ the day they died. That they’d simply stay together through thick and thin. 

Just beginning to awaken, she blinked lazily. Noticing him, she quirked her lips, hiding in his chest. He brought her into him, tangling his fingers in her sleep mussed hair. Everything around him could have ceased to exist. But as long as she stayed here, with him, he wouldn’t have cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am floored by how many of you like this. Wowie!


	4. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You still think that your husband is pulling your leg but it becomes increasingly obvious that that isn't the case. Loomis finally contacts this world's Michael and warns him of the storm on the horizon. Michael worries about your safety on Halloween Eve. Michael gets a kissy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone! I am absolutely gushing over the kudos and comments! I love you guys sm! Thanks for reading and I appreciate all the support. we're coming closer to the end of Mark of Incision and I'm actually kind of sad! Nice Mikey was a blast to write and so is meanie Michael but I can write him anytime. This is more of a filler chapter but the exciting stuff is coming! Can't wait to show you guys what happens next.

On Sundays, You and Michael liked to usually laze about. And on those days, you woke later into the day than usual, closer to noon than your mother would approve of, but who was she to judge? Nothing was stopping you from doing absolutely nothing but sitting in front of the TV. Maybe some minor chores and making food but you and Michael made quick work of those. The phone, unfortunately, had started ringing and Michael, grumpy and whiny as usual, rolled out of bed and went to answer the phone. You were too tired to even eavesdrop, waiting for him to come back and tell you. He shuffled around, the bed dipping where he sat beside you. He chuckled quietly, pulling the blanket away from your face slightly, brushing a finger across your eyelashes. You huffed at the strange feeling, opening your eyes to see him gazing down at you, a certain softness in his mismatched eyes. 

“Traeger wants me to go open up the shop so he can finish that Chevy. The lazy bastard wasn’t working on it on Friday but Sunday is the perfect day for this shit, huh?” He kissed your forehead, standing to shove jeans and a shirt on. “I’ll be back in a bit.” 

He shuts the door faintly as to keep you in a daze. You did try in your own way to go back to sleep but no matter what you tried, you felt like you couldn’t. There was an uneasiness with Michael gone and you thought it better to be up. You showered and dressed, staying for a moment to stretch in front of the window. The sun was up already and had been for a few hours but the temperature was still pretty low. The pretty shades of orange and yellow littered the streets and Halloween decorations had already come up, little fake cobwebs and jack-o-lanterns already placed on the steps of some porches. You almost forgot that you had to buy candy for the trick or treaters this year. 

You climbed down the stairs, starting on a small meal, going slower than normal, not quite sure when Michael would be back. When you went to the living room to turn on the radio, you could have sworn that you saw something move across the street. The hedge in your neighbor’s yard had rustled, maybe just a little. Perhaps he was doing yard work? You approached the window, pulling the curtain to cover you. Peeking out over to their lawn, no one was there. But you saw someone. Didn’t you…? You shook your head and turned on the radio, a host recounting some story of a robbery in town. Big news lasted a long time in small towns. Eventually, a song came on. One of your favorites too. You smiled and sang along, going back to your earlier mission of chopping some vegetables for breakfast. Once you finished, you heard the rumble of Michael’s car in the driveway. He came inside, surprised to see you awake on a Sunday morning. Michael wound his arms around your waist, swaying you a little. 

“Hey, you.” You leaned your neck to one side, letting him sweep your hair to the other shoulder like a vampire. He kissed your neck, setting his chin to rest on your shoulder, bowing over you to observe.   
“Whatcha makin’?” He asked and you smirked, stirring the contents of the pan on the stove. 

“Food.” He made a humming sound as if the prospect was unimaginable.

“Mm. Food. My favorite.” He patted you on the ass and you called out, squawking in surprise. You smacked him on the shoulder, wishing to wipe that smug smile from his face. You only forgave him because he was taking dishes out, glaring at him. He told you about Traeger and his one-hour conversation about something that annoyed Michael to no end, helping you to serve the food. 

After you had eaten breakfast, you and Michael had chosen to follow the Sunday routine, plopping down in front of the TV to watch a movie or whatever seemed good. He sat with his back to the end of the couch, letting you sit between his legs, resting your back on his chest, and curling up in a blanket. And then you remembered that at some point you had turned the radio on. You sat up and looked at Michael who has brushing fingers along your scalp. He raised an eyebrow watching as your expression pinched. 

“When you came home, did you turn off the radio?” He muted the TV and squinted his eyes. He scratched at his jaw. The blond looked away as if he was trying to think about your question.

“Uhh, I don’t think the radio was on. If it was on, I didn’t turn it off. Or I don’t remember turning it off.” You turned to look at it. You could almost see yourself walking over to the object, turning on a local station, and then walking back to the kitchen to continue your work. When did the music stop? You couldn’t seem to recall. You shook your head and relaxed back into Michael, who seemed worried. You tilted your head up. He pulled you into his hold.

“Are you okay?” He asked, poking a finger into your side. “You’ve been a little jumpy.” You nodded, turning to look up at him. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

-

“Hey, I’m here for my car?” You ripped your eyes from the numbers you were calculating on the receipts. You met the face of the man who owned the mustard yellow Chevy. You couldn’t think of his name just that he was a sleaze. You barely managed to miss the lascivious leer he gave you. He wore a tight paisley button shirt with way too many buttons down. Like anyone really wanted to see three chest hairs. You nodded and called Traeger over. 

“Did you finish up that Chevy yet?” Traeger you could say was the most decent of the other men who worked on the floor of the autobody shop. He was married to a woman, Doreen, who loved to tell you embarrassing things about her husband on the rides to your house when Michael stayed late. But they were a charming couple. Said man jogged over, holding the keys and handed them to you, going back to a tire rotation. You motioned with your head that the man could follow you, finding his Chevy next to a few other cars. Your shoes clicked over the smooth cement. 

“Okay, so you paid the 30 bucks when you dropped it off, so you should be set. Thanks for coming to Miller’s.” You repeated the line you always said when customers drove off in their cars but you were taken aback when he tried to lean against the car and flirt with you. 

“So… How much longer are you stuck here?” The man grinned wolfishly, saying more words to convince you to tell him when you could leave. He wasn’t kidding, was he. You tilted your head. You had 2 rings on your finger, in plain sight. But you guessed people didn't see what they didn't want to. He had reached a hand out to touch you, attempting to do so without permission. You opened your mouth to tell him that you were, in fact, married to the owner of the shop but leave it to Michael to scare him into leaving you alone. A hand clapped down on the man's shoulder. 

“Is there a problem?” You don’t think you’ve seen such a cold look in Michael’s eyes, squeezing over the man's shoulder to the point that the man winced in pain. His lip twitched as he crumpled in Michael’s grip. 

“Hey! What the hell?! I just wanted to ask her-” 

“Ask her what.” He grits out from clenched teeth. Stunned into silence, you watched motionless as Michael's eyes turned dark. Not so much in color but something was lurking, ready to pounce. You called Michael's name and his head snapped up to look you in the eye. He directed the man's head to look at you, arms clutching at your clipboard. You felt discomfort as the man reluctantly met your gaze. The other employees gathered around to watch Michael and the man. “That is my wife. You don’t touch her. Now, get the fuck out of here before I beat the shit out of you.” The low grating of his voice made you shiver. 

You tossed the man's keys to him. He hurriedly opened the door, peeling out of the driveway. Michael watched him go and when he was completely gone, he took your wrist; gentle but firm. You followed him to the tiny office, his hands almost clenching the doorknob as hard as that man’s shoulder. 

You wanted to say something but you couldn't think of anything to say. There were several times that you wanted to tell him that that was unnecessary. That you could have told the man to leave you alone yourself. You weren't scared of him. You were scared that what he did could get him in trouble. You didn't even want to think of what Michael would have done if that man had actually touched you. What was he capable of? 

Inside the silent room, Michael seethed like magma that was about to turn into lava. Michael’s fingers were stained in oil, dark and drying an odd color. You went to the other side of the room and got a rag with water from the water cooler. You sat beside him and handed him the damp cloth. He didn’t utter a single word for a good 10 minutes. He wrung his hands, staring intently at the floor. Your fingertips traced the threads on the leather upholstery, waiting for Michael to get out of his head. His stare migrated to you. The burning emotion was calmer now but the embers were still alight, the set and tick of his jaw giving him away. 

“I-” He cut himself off before continuing. “Are you scared of me?” He questioned you and you shook your head in the negative. 

“I can’t be scared of you, Michael. He didn’t do anything but try and ask me what time I could leave. I was gonna tell him that I’m married but you came and… you looked like you could have really hurt him.” He struck you as guilty, ingenuine though. You didn't think he regretted what he had done. He regretted making you feel any kind of way. Threatening that man; he could never be sorry for. 

“He was going to touch you.” He said quietly. 

“So?” He reigned in another phrase. Another sentence that would tell you how much he didn’t like the concept of people touching you. No one should touch you but him. He held that back. You would find that odd. Possessive. It was too late; you had already caught on to his meaning. 

“I could have just told him to go myself. Michael, I belong with you. Not to you.” He tightened his fingers around the cloth in his hands. “Do you- You trust me, don’t you?” He nodded. His nose bumped into yours, a sloppy kiss on your lips. His hand settled on your neck, thumb brushing the spot his teeth had sunk into. You don’t miss the connotation of his touch. 

“More than anyone.” 

-

In the night, the cold seeped into his bones. He felt it but he ignored it. In the window, the woman and his double smiled and laughed. Music played in the background of their picturesque life. In the kitchen, they cooked together, fooling around and laughing so much it was like their cheeks were cut open. She wore a loose shirt, not belonging to her, the size hanging well past her hips. It hung open and she wore a shirt that fit her better underneath it, shorts clinging to her lower half. The man who shared his appearance was dressed in simpler street clothes, jeans, and a shirt. They put something in the oven and set a timer. Micheal observed through the window, obscuring himself with the bush growing over the view through the glass. 

The man leaned against the counter, watching just as attentive as himself. His eyes were glued to every movement the woman made as she babbled about some conversation. He hummed enough for her to think that he was paying attention but he was so obviously distracted by her. Was he set on her? He likens it to the burning need to hunt someone. To see everything they do and learn about their lives only to end them. But it isn’t the same. Not entirely. Michael follows around the house to their most open room. They sit on the couch, whispering and tittering to each other about the actions playing out on the screen in front of them. The backdoor is locked but his will to enter is already determined. They are somehow more aware of the evil that lurks; not just in him but in other bodies. Other people who take advantage. The other townspeople kept their doors unlocked. Nothing to fear. 

He times his movements with louder parts of their entertainment, the door giving under his abuse. He waits to see if the couple has heard him but they haven’t. He stands in the doorway, unnoticed by them before creeping up the stairs. Now with more time to linger in their space, he notices a photograph on their nightstand, what some might categorize as ‘cute’. He wants to take it. He wonders how long it will take for his counterpart to see the empty frame. 

He carefully pushes the little metal clasps that hold the cardboard and glass against the frame, prying the slip of paper away from the thin sheet of glass. 

He catches sight of himself in her vanity mirror. Michael had seen it the first time he was here, going through her things but the candidness in the reflection disconcerts him. Not so upsetting but before he can hear the painful sound the knife cut into the mirror. A long scratch mars the perfect surface. Will it unsettle her to see the unfamiliar blade mark on the once pristine surface of her mirror? 

He wants to walk downstairs and leave through the backdoor but there is a commotion. They saw the broken backdoor. The woman is panicked and frantically trying to convince her husband that something is desperately wrong. She is more alert than he thought her to be. He listens as his other calms and comforts her, sitting her down and giving her some type of weapon he thinks. He asked her to defend herself. She clutches at a knife, warily peeking around her as his double looks around the house. He stands in the darkness of the hall and he passes him just barely. The way out is blocked by the woman but she’s not paying attention. She watches a shadow out in the trees moving slowly. In her distraction, he slips out of her line of sight and silently disappears into the darkness outside. She’s none the wiser but her eyes catch that creeping shadow past the hedge. 

-

Loomis exits his BMW, clutching the handle to his briefcase in a vice-like grip. He’s forgone the white lab coat for a tan trench coat, fluttering behind him. He thinks he looks like a film noir detective. He even has a small revolver tucked away. The auto shop isn't under the man's name he thinks because he’s sure the name is Myers and not Millers but he walks up to the woman at the desk, scratching her head with a No.2 yellow pencil. She looks up and gives him a nice customer service smile. She greets him, standing to shake his hand. 

“I’m looking for a Michael Myers. Does he work here?” She nods and tilts her head. 

“Is he here now?” 

“Yes, he’s working on something right now, should I ask him to meet you up here or would you like me to take you to him?” She asks and he offers to go with her to the main floor. She smiles and her heeled loafers click on the lot. She stops at a man bent over the hood of a car and at seeing him he rolls his eyes. He’s wearing coveralls like the photos said the other Michael had a habit of wearing and he knew that this was going to go terribly. He straightened and turned at the call of the woman beside him, smiling. He also had the injured eye, taken by Laurie with a metal hanger. 

“Michael, there’s someone here to see you.” She smiled back at him and he looked between them, observing the glittering ring on her finger and the band on Michael's hand. Oh dear God. Loomis nodded his head to her as she passed back to the desk she came from. Michael wiped his hand on a dirty rag, shaking his hand and Loomis introduced himself. 

“Hello, my name is Dr. Loomis, Samuel Loomis and I have something to tell you. I’ll warn you now that you most likely won't believe me when I tell you but I would appreciate it if you kept an open mind.” Michael furrowed his brows and leaned back against the car. 

“Well, what is it?” 

Loomis inhaled and explained his project in enough detail as not to confuse the man. Michael seemed surprised that it was even possible but Loomis stayed morose. He then opened his briefcase. 

“That brings me to the next problem. The world I discovered has another version of you as there is another version of me and probably almost everyone you know. In that world, at the age of six, your other… version- Certainly not you! Uhh, killed his older sister, Judith. And after that, he was sent away for 15 years where he waited to return to Haddonfield. My other was his doctor. And not quite the best but I figure he saw something in him that he didn’t want to hurt anyone else. Unfortunately, he escaped and attempted to kill another young teen named Laurie Strode. He succeeded in killing her friends but Laurie survived. This man was recaptured after being shot. I think… I think he may have crossed over. I think he’s here.” He hands him the charred papers and Michael shuffles through them. He stops at a few pictures. 

“Is this Laurie?” He shows Loomis the photo of the blonde girl and he nods. 

“Yes, I think so.” Michael nods.

“That’s my sister. I’m not sure if these are her friends but this is my sister.” He lowers the photo. He flips through the papers and seems to almost believe him. 

“I don’t want to make you afraid of everything that goes bump in the night. I just wanted to let you know what happened. If anything were to happen to you or your family; I don't know what I would do. Please be careful, especially on Halloween night. I need you to remember that this man looks like you. And he’s capable of monstrous things.” The man gives him a card with a phone number. He stuffs his papers away and drives off the lot. Michael contemplates what the man said. Could it really be true? He thinks about that night. The door was open but it’s possible that they left it open. And what about that mask you mentioned? He shakes his head and returns to his earlier work, trying to stay undistracted. 

-

Again, you catch a ride with Doreen to your home, waving goodbye. Michael stayed late again, reluctantly because he said he ‘didn't want to leave you at home alone’. You scoffed and kissed him on his cheek, winking at him. You unlocked the door, debating on warming up what Michael made last night or just plopping down in front of the TV. You went up the stairs and changed. The door opened and you wondered if Michael gave in to his feeling of not letting you be at home all alone.

“Michael, is that you?” You called to the source of the noise, met with a ringing silence. It persisted until you turned again to a noise just as loud and just as quick, but still within range to scare you. Whipping around to face it, you were met with that pale face you kept seeing around. “There you are. I’ve been calling you. As you can see, I’m still alive!” You shout from the top of the stairs, beginning to descend to scold him. He’s standing and staring at a photo on the wall. When you look again, he’s wearing that weird mask. He turns slowly to face you and you put a hand on your hip. “You’re making me feel like I’m going crazy.” You poked the mask on the nose. He caught your hand before it retracted back to your side. 

You pulled him downstairs by the hand around yours but you don’t feel the wedding band. You scrunch your features, sitting on the couch. He stands while you try and relax. 

“Did you lose your ring?” You ask and he looks down to his hand where you rub the finger his ring should be on. Maybe he left it at the shop. His skin looks paler and his hands feel clammy. You become distracted from your earlier question by the pallid tone of his skin and the odd feeling of his palms. 

“Michael, I think you’re getting sick.” You try and gauge his temperature but he stares at you. Stares at you like he’s trying to read your thoughts. With the direct light from the lamp behind the couch, his eyes are a little bit visible and you sigh in relief. For a moment you could have believed that this wasn’t Michael but the familiar blue and white eyes are a sight for sore eyes. Should you make him some tea? You drag him into the kitchen and he must be really tired. He’s dragging his feet as if he didn’t even want to go with you. You put a kettle on the stove after adding water and sit him down on the small table in the kitchen. 

“I’m not sure why you’re wearing that mask. It’s just not scary. Maybe you should buy another one and try again?” You tease, getting the tea from the jar on the counter, and putting it in a mug. “Hmm, I think I could love you no matter what you look like though.” When you turn he’s standing right behind you. He’s breathing hard and you think he really might be sick. He scrunches his hands and you pout a little, grabbing his hands in yours. 

“My poor baby. You should go take a bath and get some rest. If you’re lucky I’ll join you but no kisses! I hate being sick.” You shoo him away and he stays still for a moment. You think he’s reluctant to go without you. “I’ll bring your tea.” He stands, immobile; acting like you didn't say anything in the first place. You take his silence as disagreeing with your earlier comment, rolling your eyes playfully. “I guess I can give you one kiss.” You kiss the lips of his mask. “But no more.” He turns and walks out into the dining room, you suspect; to go up the stairs. You hear the whistling kettle and pour him a mug. In the whistling, you didn’t hear the low rumble of Michael's car and his keys on the door. He sighs heavily but he’s happy to see you milling about in the kitchen. 

“Oh honey, I’m home.” He mocks the iconic line and he’s surprised to see you snap your head up to meet his eyes. 

“What the hell do you mean, ‘home’? You came home half an hour ago.” You look a little angry, holding a mug of steaming liquid. He huffs. 

“This again? I haven’t been home. Not since we left this morning.” You set the drink down. 

“Michael, you were here; at the bottom of the stairs wearing that awful godforsaken mask when I came down and you were pale and cold so I thought you were sick. So, I sent you up for a bath and to go to bed. And you lost you-” You look down to his left hand. The gold band glitters in the kitchen light. You mutter the last of your sentence in confusion. You put a hand to your forehead. 

“It was you! It was your eyes! Your clothes, your-” You place the same hand over your mouth. You kissed the mask twice already, thinking it was him. Assuming it was him. What would he do if you told him that? You didn’t even know what to think; much less what to do. His blood feels cold in his veins as he remembers that bloody mask with the hole in the neck. He pulls you into a hug at your panicked expression. He contemplates telling you what that Loomis character told him. Deliberating makes him imagine that fear-stricken look on your face that he doesn't like. He doesn't want to make you even more afraid. Michael hasn’t seen this mysterious masked man yet anyway but he dreads what should happen if he waits to see it. He sits you down by the phone in your living room, telling you to shout if you need him. 

“If I yell, I want you to call the police. If you do end up calling them, wait outside.” He kisses you before grabbing a knife from the kitchen drawer. He checks every room in the house and when he sees you clutching the phone to your chest he lets you squeeze him, patting your back and kissing the top of your head to comfort you. He mutters words to calm your unease, keeping you as close to his body as he can. There’s a pang of odd guilt in your gaze but he doesn’t want to question it. Not right now. 

-

Michael can hear her say good-bye to whoever is driving the car that passes by in a blur once she steps out of it. Her shoes tap steadily against the stones in the yard and then onto the wooden porch, her key fob jingling in her hand. She hums and heaves a sigh, lingering by the hook and umbrella stand before mounting the stairs. He wants to follow her up there but he thinks better of it. He opens the door; she forgot to lock it in her fatigue. Whether she is too trusting of a quiet neighborhood or just forgetful, it means the same thing to him. He makes intense eye contact with a photo on the wall in the stairs, one he remembers ignoring in favor of the blonde girl, his somewhat sister. It's of the woman and the man who looks like him standing on the porch behind him. She’s covered in small little paint stains and her skin glows with sweat. Her arm is slung around his other’s waist, his arm holding her to his side. Both look proud and he imagines her painting his house the bland white color his mother picked. Eggshell. Although, she picked something closer to a pearl but he doesn’t want to imagine the lifetime of memories she has with his mirror. She seems to have heard him opening the door and yells something down the stairs. Does she assume that he is her husband again? She really needs to stop presuming that any man with coveralls in her house is her husband. 

He finds her words funny. Still alive? And then she says that he’s making her feel like she’s going crazy. The nurses and orderlies used to call him crazy. Psycho. Schizo. All behind the safety of his locked room door. They were meant to be mean and hurtful words but he wonders if they were right. Were they? Her finger raises to bump against the tip of his mask. She’s braver than anyone he’s ever encountered. People were afraid to touch him often fearing an outburst. He catches her hand in his own and he can feel how small her wrist is in his hand. His fingers more than meet over that round bone jutting out. Her hand catches around him and tightens around his fingers. She moves and he’s not ready to let her catch on to his little game. He follows her to the living room to that couch. He remembers the rose printed thing from his childhood. She mentions a ring and he realizes that married people wore rings. Michael looks down to his bare fingers, her touch over his hand makes him want to bristle, sends phantom shivers down his spine. She suggests that maybe he lost it and he remains silent. 

The woman notices something off about his skin. Does he feel the same as his counterpart? Does she know her husband well enough to know him by touch alone? She mutters that he might be sick but he’s just paler than him. The sun through the window can only do so much. She worries and drags him further to the kitchen and he’s tired of being pulled along like a child. She sits him down at the small table in the center of her kitchen. He marvels at those ugly ‘decorative plates’ on the wall, still hung up like they meant anything. She fiddles with several objects and her next words make him stand. She confirms that his mask is hardly frightening to her. That she thinks he should try again. He wants to give her the scare of her life. He wants to think that he needs her to be scared of him. That gaping maw of a scream. High pitched and feminine. She says she’d love him no matter what he looks like. But he knows it’s not him she’s really talking about. She turns and for a moment it could have been. 

He can feel his breath rise in his chest and his hands ball into fists. She prattles on about his ‘sickness’ and she tries to send him up for a bath. He stays and she rolls her eyes. Her lips connect with the unfeeling lips of his mask and he feels like pushing her back. Something rages and whines in him and he can hardly hear anything. He wanders out of the door and finds purchase in the darkness of their backyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, next chapter is when everything really descends into madness. I'm so excited!!!💖


	5. Stranglehold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween and Nice!Mikey is on edge. Michael waits for the perfect opportunity to strike. Loomis watches for much the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH THE DAY IS FINALLY HERE!!! catch me straight up ignoring my slasher writing blog to write this shit lmao!! I've been slaving over this and reading and rereading it and I think I may have finally got it to the point where I actually like it. IDK I'll let you guys read and let me know what you think!

The children giggle and chase each other down the street in silly and spooky costumes alike. Michael, who has loved Halloween since the tender age of four, has so much candy, both for the two of you and the kids from the neighborhood. Enough for the kids who come to the shop and enough for tonight; even to suffice your personal enjoyment. Today, there was a small bowl of candy at the front desk of the auto shop and he sent the guys home early so they could trick or treat with their kids. 

In the morning, you dressed in a white dress with black eyeshadow, claiming you were a scary ghost to the little ones who came by the shop. As you put on your dark eye makeup, a scratch floats over your face. White and textured underneath the pad of your forefinger. You blanked for a second. You don’t remember doing that, scratching your own vanity mirror. Events like that just come with Halloween, you decided, shrugging it off. Now, however, the sun was starting to set and most of the smaller children were heading home, on their way to cozy up in their warm beds. His costume was…actually, he wasn’t wearing one, when he woke up, he kissed you good morning and changed into his coveralls; like usual. Most of the time, Halloween was his favorite. He wore something almost every Halloween. This year, he refused to even be a vampire. He seemed tense and had been all day. You periodically asked if he was okay but he only nodded and reassured, even if you knew something was wrong. You wondered if it was because of Judith or some issues about his parents. Nothing had happened recently enough for that to be the case though. 

Despite the almost awkward mood, you and Michael sit on the couch, watching old horror movies, the scream queens and the ghosts, and the horrifying monsters of the holiday making their appearances. You unwrapped a small candy, one of your favorites, and mindlessly put it in your mouth, feeling Michael’s fingers brush along the back of your neck. He breathed deeply, blankly staring at the screen. He turned his head to the front door, the doorbell ringing. You smiled and got up, tossing the wrapper into a little brown paper bag you had ready for the occasion. Picking up the orange plastic bowl decorated with little black spiders, you opened your front door, greeted by a chorus of ‘trick or treat’ from several little kids. You smiled and handed out candy, chatting with the kids and the chaperone all the same, watching them walk down the stone path out into the street again.

“I miss anything?” you teased, Michael scoffing lightly. You assume your earlier place at his side and he pulls you into him again. 

“We’ve only seen this movie a million times.” You grin and laugh a little, eyes watching the events play out on the screen. Michael is silent for the rest of the movie, he flinches at a firework some teens set off in the street and he even lowers the volume on the film at some point, claiming it to be ‘too loud’. You furrow your brow at him even as you let him do as he pleases. The movie ends and you yawn, stretching your arms up. 

“How much eggs and toilet paper do you think we’ll have to clean up in the morning?” You comment, seeing a bunch of teens in masks wheel down the street on bikes. You can see their bags are stuffed full and you’ve got a hunch on what it might be. Michael doesn’t answer, too busy staring out the window to hear you. He turns after a moment or two, seeing your worried face.

“Mikey, what’s wrong?” You ask and he dawdles about as if he wants to say something. He won’t. Michael hesitates, weighing pros and cons before deciding to merely go upstairs and use the bathroom. To contemplate some more, you suppose. You allow him to retreat as you wrap up the candy and wipe away whatever makeup you have on. You begin to climb the stairs to change out of the white dress but you forgot to turn your porch light off. You sigh heavily and make your way back down the stairs and lament about not doing this earlier. It turns off with a simple flic and you get distracted easily by other tasks. You turn around to go upstairs when you are finished. A stark figure stops you in your tracks.

It’s… Michael. But his face is placid. He’s wearing… coveralls? It appears as though he’s tried to hide the fact by rolling them down and stuffing the sleeves away; though you know them when you see them. You think he might have something to handle at the shop because he’s wearing them. He smells odd and you open your mouth to speak but suddenly he’s closer than before. Michael wouldn’t approach you like this, like a bird of prey striking towards some fuzzy thing and you breathe slowly; try and stay calm. You might have been startled. Why are you afraid? It’s just Michael.

“Michael?” You whisper and he merely inhales in response. His expression doesn't change, not in the slightest and you reach out to touch him. He catches your hand and drags you even nearer to his form. Your husband presses his face to the top of your head and usually, you’d expect a kiss, some affection from Michael; although, you’re beginning to think it’s not him. It’s hard to believe that when his face is exactly the same, the height. You can feel his jaw clench against your hairline, feel his fingers scrunch into the fabric of your costume. He hums almost too quietly but you are close enough to feel the click in his throat. He backs you up until you hit the wall of your living room and you’re confused. What is he even doing? 

“I thought-” He silences you with his stare, seeming not to want to hear you talk right now. He goes back to gazing at you strangely and you react again from your impatience.

“Michael, this isn’t funny, what are you-” His face pulls into a snarl and he slams his face against yours in a mock kiss. His mouth is glued to yours but he’s not kissing you. He’s just mouthing at your lips like he forgot how to. Teeth bite into the soft flesh of your lower lip, stinging to the point where you think you may taste blood. On instinct, you part your lips and kiss him back but you catch your anger first. You try and push him back but he doesn’t relent. His hands are gripping too tightly along your sides and you find it difficult to bring air to your lungs. Michael normally knows his strength. Your fighting and struggling excite him. He’s warm and you see the tinge on his face. He likes that you’re fighting him. His eyes are open and they are so dark, blue striking the black of his pupil. He’s stronger than you've ever cared to acknowledge, holding you still like a zoo animal in a cage. He glares at you, he's not frowning. You’ve had your play fights but this was something else entirely.

You whine and try to speak to him again; he keeps trying to kiss you and touch you. It’s like a game, the more you turn your head away from him, the more he follows. A door opens and neither of you hears it. Before you know it, Michael is suddenly in the doorway. You don’t see him at first. When you do, your breath hitches and your heart stops. He looks angry, baffled, and a little scared at the same time. 

“Hey!” He shouts to get the attention of his double, still mouthing at your neck. The strange Michael freezes and slowly turns to his doppelganger. Your eyes flick between the two men, discerning the presence of not one but two Michaels. They stare at each other, what you hope is your Michael watching on in that same disbelief. The man holding you to him knows he’s been found out by both you and your husband and let’s go of you. Your insides are tied in knots, your brain a confusing mess of questions. What was happening? He turns around entirely to face your confused husband and you see the mask sticking out of his back pocket, slate white, with stringy reddish-brown hair. Recognition and sickness roll around your sensations, making you clutch at your abdomen. 

Michael inches backward and the man standing in front of you mistakes it for fear, taking slow steps in the same direction. You know he’s thinking a hundred miles per minute and you realize this is what he must have been waiting for. Why hadn't he warned you? He has a bat from what you think is the umbrella stand. You observe them, motionless, unsure of the outcome. Your eyes haze over, blur out of focus. Snapping back at the mention of your name, your eyes shoot up in time to warn Michael of the weapon with the mask, a long silvery kitchen knife. You point to it and Michael dodges a slash from the knife barely on time. You rush to the kitchen to call the police, knowing that they look the same. At this point, the winner will be decided on their determination. You fumble with the phone and the crashing in the background causes pangs of nervousness to surface in your stomach. Bringing the phone to your ear, hearing nothing but silence drags your attention to the cord connected to the phone. The frayed wires are cut and you throw the plastic thing away. When you return to the living room to see if you can escape and call for help from neighbors, the two seem to have disarmed each other. The baseball bat rolled away and the knife on the floor. You can only tell the difference between them from the clothes. From far away you almost can't, they look too similar. Michael tackles the copy and holds him long enough for you to hear him.

“Get out of here! Run!” You stop, you don’t want to leave him behind. He wouldn't leave you behind. You know that. The other one rises up with immense strength and pins your husband, seeming to want to wrap his hands around the throat of the man underneath him. Michael catches them; it takes everything he has to hold them away from his neck. The mysterious look-alike’s eyes meet yours, a threat lying in his expression. You turn and shove the door open with a bang. 

-

From the seat in his car, Loomis feels like quite the stalker. The house is achingly normal. The woman from the front desk of the autobody shop opens the door for the children littering the streets and his suspicions are proven correct. She is the wife of the man, Michael Myers. He watches for the skulking figure of a masked man, thumbing the metal of the little revolver in anticipation. He has second thoughts about if he’s even right about all of this. What if there is no crazed serial killer pacing around trying to kill these people? Loomis assures himself that it is better to be safe than sorry, patrolling with what he hopes is sharp eyes. He almost falls asleep several times, the night eerily quiet. He shakes himself awake at the sound of a crash somewhere far off. Through the blanket of darkness, he sees a commotion through the windows. And suddenly the woman bursts through the door, out onto her porch. He throws the door to the car open, running to her. She asks for help and says there is a man.

“He’s- he’s- My husband! There’s someone in the house!” She doesn’t seem to recognize him as she vehemently motions for her house, the source of the crashing. The black square cut into the face of the white house is so dismal, like tar. He feels a pang of fear. Be that as it may, he knows that this is his fault. That he has to fix it. He enters the house. 

-

People on the streets ignored him as he watched the autobody shop. He stood behind the red truck, undetected by both the woman and her husband. She turned when someone called her name and she smiled as the man who shared his face hugged her. Rested his head on top of hers. His eyes scanned the area and he might have been searching for him but it was too late. He no longer looked any different than a regular person standing on the street. The woman handed candy to children and adults even, dressed in a white dress and dark eye makeup. He wasn’t sure what the costume was supposed to be. They went home earlier than usual and he followed at a distance. Waiting for the right moment. When her husband would leave her alone long enough. 

They do boring things like watching the television for hours and they take turns answering the door for sugar-high children. The woman eats chocolate and on occasion feeds some to her tense husband. He knows that he is keeping a lookout for him. He is waiting for him too but he will find a fault in his awareness. The curtains are closed more than usual and the door is locked. He finds an unlocked window; opens it silently undetected. He knows they are still sitting on the couch. The dark silhouette in the kitchen takes his time setting up for when things will inevitably take a turn. The sleeves of the mechanic’s suit are tied around his waist to make himself seem more casual, his hair in some semblance of how the man wears it, neater and smoother. He goes to the kitchen where the main phone is, cutting the cord so the phone won’t ring nor will she be able to use it to call the police. He wants to cut the power off to darken the house but he knows doing that will raise too much suspicion. They’ll realize something is off sooner than he wants them to. Sooner than he wants her to. 

Truthfully, he cares little for the man. Another version of him that seems to be less tormented, less abnormal. He knows there is something off about himself and it certainly isn’t the devil. He wonders what it would have been like should he have avoided killing Judith. Nothing like this, he thinks. He would have done another act if not for that Halloween night. Whatever the case, as long as he doesn’t stand in the way of his goal then he won’t have to kill him. Though, he doesn’t quite understand his own goal. He’s never been the type to go with the motions but he isn't sure of what the endgame is. When he has her alone what will he do? Kill her? He’s not sure. The blood in his body solidifies and he can feel something. His head is full of dull noise and urges and he can’t wait. He’s still patient. 

The night darkens and finally, there is a lapse. Thumps on the stairs mark the man’s soon-to-be absence, the woman moving around the house, cleaning up and washing her face. As she’s about to turn around to follow his other, he steps into where her line of sight would meet him. He doesn’t bother trying to mimic expressions or body positioning. She is too comfortable in her own home to question his presence, especially now that he’s not wearing his mask. It feels strange to be standing here with no mask on. To be away from Smith's Grove and be bare-faced. As he thought, she suspects there is nothing wrong. She doesn’t check for a ring nor does she take issue with his hair or his skin. She does however notice the clothes. She’ll forget about that soon enough. Michael comes closer and closer to her, her body moving backward. Her back meets the wall and he wants to see the exact moment she realizes that it isn’t her perfect husband.

Michael’s breath comes out heavier than normal, deep inhales and deep exhales. The noise is usually so dramatic behind the mask but it’s less noticeable now. She says his name in a timid tone, so hushed from her lips. He hasn’t heard his name directed to him like that in a long time. Maybe even never. There’s a little bit of fear in her voice and he finds he likes the way it sounds. Her hand reaches for him and he obliges, grabbing it and pulling her up to him. Her hair smells clean and he lowers his face as her husband does. Buries his nose in her hair and clenches his jaw, teeth-gritting. He hums a little, out of something like instinct, without even wanting to make a noise. Hands in the fabric of her dress, he remembers that night he saw her in her bed. Shoulder blades meet the wall and he has her stuck there. 

“I thought-” She speaks again and he leans away, eyes meeting hers. His eye, the one he can see from, focuses on her face, silencing her. She’s becoming testier so he does something to make her stop reacting. Words flow from her mouth; his name and how she does not find what he's doing amusing in any way. His expression shifts, his features changing, familiarly, the way they do behind a mask. Michael brings his mouth to her mouth, the mode her husband does yet somehow entirely different. Her lips taste like chocolate, so rich it burns. He pinches his teeth on her soft lip, tongue flooded with the taste of her blood. She opens her mouth and he takes the opportunity as it stands, sticking his tongue between her lips, hot and wet. She tries to close her mouth again. He won’t let her, her expressive eyes flying open to meet his decisive gaze. 

He can see why the horny teens like it, however, he’s not sure if he likes the taste of someone else's spit in his mouth. Her hands grip his black shirt, attempting to push him away from her form. Memories of victims fighting for their lives; scratching, clawing, pulling, and pushing, have him thinking about the woman, screaming and crying, begging. Heat courses through him and he doesn’t mind ‘kissing’ her so much when she’s trying to struggle. She’s wrong, he thinks it’s amusing.

His opened palms are around the smaller woman’s waist and hips, squeezing down on plush body. He knows she can’t breathe properly so he gives a small space to inhale, immediately listening to her whine. It makes hairs on his body stand and he hates it. She turns her head away from him and he follows, chases after her candy-flavored mouth, bleeding lips still red. Then suddenly, her breath stops puffing against his cheek. Her gaze is focused somewhere behind him and he knows that he’s been discovered. They both know that he isn’t supposed to be here. He reluctantly releases his hold on her, facing the person standing behind him. He seems afraid but he’s already been watching him for at least a week. He was used to the idea of someone living a better life than him. No constant battle in his head, no Loomis, no Judith, no Smith's Grove. Michael approaches the man standing in the doorway, still as a statue though as he approaches, he backs up towards the door. Will he really run and leave his wife behind with the man who’s been stalking her for days? 

A bat is sitting in the umbrella stand and he’s at least satisfied that this won’t be as easy as he thought. He does think his other looks silly holding a bat like he’s going to swing at him. His hand slips behind him for his knife and as Michael grips the handle of the blade, her name slips from his duplicate's throat and he marks the first strike, barely missing. He was aware of the weapon and had dodged his attack. He can hear the girl get up to run to the kitchen, ready to call the police. She’s wasting her time, he’s already dealt with that. 

The man opposite of him matches him in strength so he won’t be able to overpower him, he’ll have to try and wait for him to let his guard down. The man will not wait for him to plan this, already bringing the bat in for a hit. He stays out of range before grabbing at it, his hand also held fast. They fight for control, for the weapons. A wooden bang and a rolling sound announce the bat falling to the floor and he’s triumphant; at the same time, his other disarms him of his knife. The metal clang by instinct makes him reach for it, interrupted by his other forcing him away and into a table. Vases and useless decorative objects come crashing to the floor of his own family home.

His last weapon, his own hands strive to wrap themselves around the throat of his counterpart. With no other choice, his copy picks his bodily force, tackling him to the floor. They crash to the carpeted ground near the couch, like wild animals seeking to spill blood. Ever the caring husband, he shouts out for her to run and go. Better than to hide. If he wins, he will find her. He’ll always find her. The teasing idea of a darkened house and a hunt for a whimpering, defenseless little ball of wound up nerves has him surging forward for the kill. His eyes meet her wide ones, promising that very fate should she fail her task. 

-

The woman heaves for air, panicked breaths leaving her lungs. Regaining control of herself, she pulls on his sleeve when she sees his little revolver, loaded with all six bullets, poised for the shot. 

“No! Don’t shoot!”

“And why on Earth shouldn’t I?! Need I remind you that there is a man in your home who fully intends to murder your husband?” He urges and motions for her porch again. She refreshes her efforts. 

“You don’t understand! They- They look the same! And if you miss and shoot my husband, I swear to God! Just… Go in there and knock the one with the mask in his back pocket out. Please!” Her eyes are shining like glass marbles and he studies; mediates. He nods and goes forward.

In the blackened shadows of the Myers home, he can spot the figures of two men. They fight for the ability to strangle the other. A battle of wills, it seemed, the men were physically indiscernible if you weren't paying close enough attention. His presence goes unnoticed, both of them too busy trying to kill each other to remark the man in the trench coat. Leather taps against the wood and he can see the bat that touched the tip of his shoe. He picks it up, eyes trained on the one on top. His eyes are cold, mismatched, filled with a withdrawn fury. He knows that stare from the photographs and as he glances down to the pocket he sees the mask. As quiet as he can be, he nears them, baseball bat on hand. A creak gives him away at the last second and the cold deep eyes meet his right before the bat smacks him so hard in the head, he blacks out on the carpet. 

-

Following behind as Loomis appears in the doorway, you run inside. Your Michael, you think, coughs, helped up from the floor by the man in the coat. He sees you and stands, coming towards you. You flinch back and he stops, slowing himself. 

“It’s me.” You freeze for a moment before bursting into tears like a cliche movie star, embracing him. You sob and he holds you as close to his body as is humanly possible. “I won’t leave you alone again, I promise.” He bends to kiss your forehead and you nod, letting him wipe your tears. The other man in the room who is conscious clears his throat uncomfortably and you and Michael remember that there is a stout man in a tan coat standing behind the two of you. You part from and look at him. Michael thanks him for helping him and you recall the older man's face.

“You were at the shop.” You say and both Michael and Loomis go silent. “You knew he would be here. You knew he had been here. And so did you.” You peer up at Michael whose face is consumed in guilt. You back away from him, your foot nudging the boot of the man. Your watcher, hanging over you for days and you didn’t even notice. You startle and back away from them all, sitting on the recliner. The unspoken trust, built over years and years of friendship and even marriage, is tainted. He understands it from his face. He will explain himself later when you are more open to listening to him. 

For now, Loomis demands that Michael help load the heavy figure into the back of the car he came in, a little light yellow BMW. They tie his hands and his ankles together, careful not to jostle him too much lest he wakes in the middle of whatever movement the men have planned. You sit and ponder the betrayal. He had known since the day that Dr. Loomis as he formally introduced himself had come to the shop. Had been anticipating it even, his odd behavior finally having a reason. You rub your temples and come to the car with the two. Michael locks the door to the house behind you and you face him. 

“I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone, didn’t I?” There’s a regretfulness in his eye, you comprehend that he is sorry for not warning you, telling you about the man. You think of bitterly recounting to him every time you embraced and kissed that double. How he’d be every bit the jealous lover in a novella. But you don’t. 

Loomis insists you take the front seat and loads Michael in the backseat with well, as Loomis explained it, Michael. The drive will be long as Loomis’ lab is far from Haddonfield, He recounts the story of his machine and deeply apologizes for the error that caused the deaths of a young man in town and a man whose truck had been stolen. For the error that caused this dreadful night. The polite part of you wants to say that it’s ok. Both you and Loomis know that it isn't so you say nothing. He awkwardly stumbles over his plan of sending Michael back to the universe or dimension or plane of existence he is from, telling you of his own double, who works as a psychiatrist for the man in the backseat. 

“Why does he need a psychiatrist?” You ask, suspicious. Loomis gulps. 

“When this… Micheal was young, he- killed his older sister on Halloween night. And he has been silent ever since. He has been diagnosed with a sickness. My own ‘rational’ version said that he was evil.” You turn slowly to Michael in the backseat making eye contact with your husband. 

“You knew all of that and didn't bother to tell me?” You say in a tone that speaks volumes without raising over a whisper. He scratches his neck and you huff. 

“Idiots. Bumbling idiots. And what if he decided to kill me? I’d be DEAD!” You said through clenched teeth and both Loomis and Michael open their mouths to defend themselves but there is nothing that can calm you. The ride is quiet for another half hour. Michael stays alert and you nod off a few times, sleepy and tired and emotionally drained. You wake up slowly, the road is still vacant and dim, the night still midnight blue. Your eyes catch an open pair in the rearview and you guess that they’re your Michael’s but you quickly correct yourself. You turn and his hands and feet are bound together. His hands clench hard and he seems to fight them but they’re too tight. He stopped struggling awhile ago, bright red rope marks along his wrist stopping him from putting up a futile fight. You’re caught in his stare though, like a moth to a porch light. Michael doesn’t like it, kicking at his leg a little. The man inhales, seething. 

“You have a bag I can put over this guy's head?” He asks Loomis who keeps driving along. 

“No, we don’t. He can’t do anything anyway. We’ll be there in an hour.” You’re uncomfortable for that hour, his stare burning holes into the back of your head. You twiddle your thumbs and huff. After what seems like forever, Loomis pulls up to some nondescript warehouse-like building. The windows are painted over and you believe the mad scientist spiel now. He ushers you from the car, Michael opening your door for you. You shoot him an icy glare, standing in your dress still. You cross your arms, watching as they try and figure out how to move the serial killer version of your husband into the building. It was quite the hassle getting him in the car and that was when he was asleep. You huff and walk into the building. Let them do it since they want to leave you out of everything anyway. You enter and marvel at the structures and contraptions. The space hums with power and glows with light from caged bulbs. Loomis comes in for a brief moment, rolling something along; you stand, ignoring him. They actually cart Michael into the building, him trying to be more difficult, ineffectually so. You feel like Salome with this man tied up on the floor below you. 

“Now, we place him in here…” He tapped away at buttons aplenty on the main control board. A platform surrounded by mechanisms seemed to be the centerpiece of it all. A life's work. “It sustained a great amount of damage but most of it has been repaired. I have enough energy to send him back and that is all. We cannot mess this up.” He readies things and explains concepts you can’t quite grasp. You shake your head and sit on a chair in the lab, feeling dead.

Loomis is finally ready and Michael helps move the man onto the platform. He sits there on his bottom, his focus only forward. He’s been caught and there’s not much he can do. That, or he truly has accepted defeat. You feel a little bad for him, you don’t think his current state is entirely his fault but can people like him really be rehabilitated to live among the general public? You don’t know. You watch as Michael stands, ready to stop him if he chooses to rise and fight again. Loomis has a bigger remote control device where he can activate the machine. A blue light flashes and the room is suddenly full of static energy, your hair already charged, small ones standing up with goosebumps. You shiver and behold in amazement. And then the man is standing, bound hands grabbing for Micheal, dragging him into the light. He exclaims. The world is white, then the world is so dark you can't see a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMGGGGG im so sorry for this massive cliff hanger 😔


	6. The Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You remember the night Michael came home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG. I haven't updated this in so long, I've been writing but have been unsatisfied with my writing lately, so I finally managed to land on something I liked. The cliffhanger was so bad, y'all I'm so sorry. 😭 But in good news, the wait is over and we finally come to the end of my little tale. There will be an alternate ending and some tidbits and extras that didn't make it into the main story I can add or just publish and post separately. ALso, smut at the end 😈 There are some parts I wouldn't mind rewriting but I digress. I hope you liked it!!!!!!

The day drew in slowly from the night. Sweeping over the darkness; the room filled with grey. Muted shades of blue through the window above the headboard. Warm breath glides over your ear and the chest behind you inhales and exhales steadily. The presence swallowing you is so stifling, a firm grasp on your torso, the heat making you feel surrounded. The breathing might have alluded to the fact that Michael was asleep but you’ve learned that he doesn’t sleep much now, preferring to lie awake at night until exhaustion forces him into slumber every few days. He’s awake. You process each sensation slowly, shaking away whatever dream had your mind's attention. His grip tightens around you and you pat his hand. You roll over and let him tug you into his chest. Too hard. 

When he wakes, he wakes quickly. Less grumpy, more than enough hidden aggravation towards the concept. You think he doesn't want you to see what you already know to be true about him but sometimes you see old habits surface. You can see the crinkle in his brow when he rises from his comfort. And you smile a little. 

He stands behind you as you brush your teeth, watching your movements as you do them. You are used to the odd studying, the observational way he regards you go about your routine. The way his eyes follow you. 

Bathwater runs hot beneath your fingers and you wait for it to fill halfway already anticipating the way Michael will plop down just to splash water everywhere. He looks at himself in the mirror and you can see his hands ball up. You tug on the back of his shirt to gain his attention, motioning for the bath. He strips like you aren't even there, his lean body and long legs stepping into the water. You change from your pajamas, knowing he doesn't seem to have any extreme reactions to nudity during small daily activities like this. You sit between his legs and lean back onto his body. Solid and warm, feeling his heartbeat in a familiar rhythm. Paced; even. You play with his hands as he keenly observes the way you compare palms, the way you crack his knuckles. Your touch over his knees and the veins on the top of his palm has him reeling. It appeals to him; he craves affection but is nowhere near direct about it. Then his arms wind around you. You think… there is someone you recognize in his eyes. But you’ve already digested the truth. Mulled it over and over, thought hours and hours about what happened. There is no going back. You promised. He’s changed but so have you. 

Your skin feels warm under your hand, drying your hair. Michael is used to you navigating his routine, after the day he was brought home. Your eyes hurt thinking about that day. You snap yourself from it and dry Michael’s hair. The darkened blond curls slink down into looser waves and you gently pull the towel away, his eyes focused on your own. It's disconcerting but it's just him. In most people, that dry ice, ‘thousand-yard’ stare would evoke fear. Unsettling emotions. You only brush his hair back and kiss him. 

He manifests some tendencies that were weaker before. Concealed under layers of carefully crafted social cues and ‘normal’ neurotypical behavior. Tendencies that denoted something darker but they are obvious now. An unnatural amount of need to be near you. To see you at all times. To be close. You have long stopped minding it. It's important to him so you allow it. The doorbell rings and Michael’s head snaps to the sound. You dress quickly and make your way down the stairs. Following Michael this time, you slip past him at the last moment, peeking through the peephole. Loomis stands in a brown three-piece suit. You roll your eyes. The last thing you needed today was Michael seeing Loomis at your doorstep. Michael already seems to know who it is, bearing over your form to try and open the door. You push him back with your butt, opening the door and sticking your head out. Michael chooses to stand stock still to make direct eye contact. Loomis visibly gulps.

“Dr.Loomis. What brings you here?” You say rather tersely. He starts a sentence and Michael’s palm is against the door. He tries to wrench it from where you're holding it and you let go, his strength outweighing your own. Judging by the look on Loomis’ face, Michael must be doing the thing. You sigh heavily. 

“I just- wanted to apologize again. I feel awful about what happened! Please, there must be something I can do.” He says desperately. 

“Dr.Loomis, please, I think you’ve done enough.” You hold Michael back behind you with an awkwardly placed palm to his lower abdomen. He complies but you give him the evil eye, watching as he backs down. 

“I just wanted you to know, I never intended for this outcome. You have to give me a chance to make reparations, Mrs. My-” You shut the door. You place your back against it and heave a sigh. That night, a night you tried to keep from your conscious mind crept in, something that stood like a disappearing figure into the horizon, a little black dot on the line. 

-

Inky blackness shrouded you and you could feel a sickness in your belly, your breath coming a little faster. Panic consumed you and you could feel your face grow hot with the need to cry. What was happening, where was Michael? You gasped in shock as backup generators kicked in, flooding the room with a rich red light. Loomis was scrambling towards his contraption and you followed suit. You called for Michael but he didn't answer. On the platform, there lay Michael, arms splayed like he had been hit by a car. You skidded to a stop before him, vision blurred by tears leaking down your lash line and sliding down your cheek. Hoping to God that your husband wasn’t dead.

“Michael! Michael, please!” You placed hands on him gently, hovering nervously. What was there for you to do? He was breathing, shallow rises in his chest like a sea tide drew in and you felt relief. He was alive. Loomis tried shaking him and was this close to administering shocks to see if he might be comatose. You refused his help and asked him to load Michael in the car, laying him in the backseat, your lap serving as a pillow. You tried consulting Loomis about the nearest hospital but Loomis merely said no. 

“Are you serious?!” 

“If the institute catches wind of what happened to Michael at the lab, they will revoke everything! My title, my funding, they will seize all of my work and have it destroyed or better yet sent to the government. And me to jail.” He shakes his head and determinately clutches the steering wheel. You feel anger coursing through your veins.

“Michael isn’t waking up! We need to take him to get professional health care; a Tylenol and a nap aren’t going to fix this! Who says they’ll even know!?” 

“If they figure out about this, they will take Michael for testing. They’ll put him through hell. Experiment and chew him up; spit him out. They’ll bring him back to you as nothing but a bag of meat with two eyes and a mouth.” You flinch at his harsh tone and wording. You look down at Michael, petting his blond hair. His sleeping face is so peaceful. You should be sobbing and screaming but hold that. 

“Take me to my home, Dr. Loomis.” You say gravely. He looks at you in the rearview but you refuse to look at him. The car ride is so quiet you could hear Michael breathing. His eyes still don’t open and you mindlessly stroke gentle fingers over his hair and face. Once you reach your house, you wait for Loomis to grab Michael while you hold the handles of the canvas gurney. You haul him inside and set him on the couch, his legs hanging over the side. You sigh and find a blanket to lay over him, stuffing a throw pillow under his head. Loomis stutters in the middle of your living room, wrecked from the squabble earlier, looking like a nervous child. 

“I- I’m sorry, I might have been too blunt in the car. It is however regretfully; the truth. I could not bear to cause you and your husband more pain.” 

“If you really want to please me, you’d leave.” Your hands pick up fallen objects and right them to their original places. 

“I can’t leave you alone. If he awakens and attempts to hurt you, that will be on me for not staying to make sure you are alright.” You shake your head and motion for the recliner in the corner. 

-

You’re not sure when Michael wakes, just that he is standing over you when you wake up. His eyes are focused on your face and you shoot up to greet him. Tears return to your eyes and you get up and hug him close to you, your arms winding around his torso. The burn comes back behind your eyes and they sting like bees buzzing right behind your optic nerve but you’re so happy to see him standing, not keeled over in the back of Loomis’ little yellow BMW. He remains motionless, breathing deep. Sniffing, you hold him away from you for a moment. As if remembering who you are, he holds you a little. His eyes are so cold, you can feel the chill coming from him. There's not a single aspect of his expression that actually... expresses anything and he tilts his head. A little to the left. You wipe your tears with the back of your hand. 

“Michael, what happened to you?” You whisper. You don’t think he knows Loomis is here but you’d rather he not know. His hand went up to his face and he seemed shocked to feel it. You’re thoroughly confused by him. Maybe he needed space to think about what had happened to him. What he experienced. Not sure what to do, you stand in silence with him. Content to see him breathing upright. He looks at you, really looks at you. Scans over you like when you woke. How long had he been staring? His gaze roams over your face and you feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. An ant. His hand ghosts over your cheek, over the little divot in your neck. Then he stops, turns slowly. Loomis stands behind him. Michael, as if set off by some visceral reaction to the man, comes close enough to Loomis to lift him clear off the floor. You cover your mouth. The older man can’t even get out what he was going to say. He chokes, gasps around the fingers squeezing the air out of his throat. His face turns dark and you go forward to clutch at Michael's arm. 

“Michael, what are you doing?! Let him go!” You plead with him. He hardly casts you a glance. Loomis kicks Michael in the legs and he lets the battering roll off of him. He drops Loomis like a sack of rocks and the graying man rolls around in pained coughs. You kneel. The next few moments would be very important in keeping Loomis and- you feel an invisible blow to your stomach, nervousness- you; alive. You turn to see Michael staring at you. You’re stagnant when he stares you into stillness so you turn back to Loomis. 

“Take your keys and leave. Get out.” You speak in a tone that insists that he must do this. He sputters, red-faced and you merely help him up and lead him to the door. Michael stands statue-like. As if he physically is unable to move from where he is. Loomis uses you to lift himself towards the front door and wheezes. 

“Will you b-be-” 

“I’ll be fine. Go.” He nods and hobbles over to his car. You shut the door as you hear the rumble of the engine. He knows if he stays he risks losing his life. You sigh deeply. When you try and return to Michael, you're startled to learn he's one step ahead. He waits behind you. You gasp and watch him stare at you again. There's something in his eyes you can't quite place and he looks like he's in a trance. You guide him, as if he were sleepwalking, upstairs. He's still wearing clothes he usually wouldn’t wear to sleep but you’re afraid of what should happen if you try to change him. He lays down, by memory. Your memory of that night fades after that. You supposed you fell unconscious. Too tired to imagine Michael suffocating you in your sleep. 

Michael stands in front of you, much like that night. His hair is still damp. He looks upset that you didn’t let him have his way. If he could, he’d have Loomis dead on the front porch. You’d rather he just leave the two of you alone. Michael, still wearing only a towel, glares at you. You laugh a little. 

“Can’t kill Loomis naked, honey.” You pass him on your way to the kitchen. 

You prepare breakfast; coffee, toasted bread. It's more a snack before you force Michael to work. He doesn't like it but thinking about murdering Loomis and the rest of Haddonfield doesn’t pay bills. He approaches, clothed this time, a phantom at your side. His hand glances over the largest one in the block but you catch him first. You place a butter knife in his hand and wrap each of his fingers around the glinting handle. 

“Eat up,” you give him a plate with toast as you eat your breakfast, more bite of something than anything. He huffs and slams the coffee. Michael takes his coffee one part coffee and one part milk with way too much sugar. You chuckle, ready to add more sugar to your shopping list. 

He’s waiting in the car, staring dead ahead, you rush into the car as he drives. He drives slow. Almost like there's nowhere to be. The men are quiet around Michael now. They work with the radio on, muttering between themselves, the auto shop feels more like a church. Michael remembers or at least can still work on the cars. He works in a world of his own. Bending down under the hood, rolling beneath the jacked-up cars, he works for hours and hours. He uses it, you think to cope. You’re not sure though. You're never sure of him anymore. 

-

His brain feels like molten lava, pulsing with heat, and ready to pour out of his ears. He wants to hold it but he doesn’t. Michael adjusts for a moment. Something isn't right. Everything feels wrong. It's him. But someone else is here. There's something awakening. It’s part of him but also entirely different. Before he can think of anything else, a train crash collides in his head and every awful feeling in the world consumes him. Rage masked by cold indifference. Memories, come rushing as if they were a movie slide in front of him. They became his own somehow too, the quaint childhood, was mostly his own, indecipherable from himself. But then there was a knife in his hand and he killed his sister. Then there's a long while spent in a white room, where there's unearthly patience keeping the worms from eating him alive. Loomis, talking and talking while his mouth stays glued shut for years. Then there's a night. A night where he escapes; he hunts Laurie. Poor Laurie. So afraid. Her friends pinned to the wall, hanging, mouths gaping in the front seat of a car, his face behind layers of white. The other- thing in his head thinks that's entertaining. Thinks killing is a reprieve. Pure feeling. The only feeling. Is he really capable of things like this? He survived a stabbing, a shooting. A fall. And he’s tossed away for another while. 

But there are more recent events. Watching his wife through windows without her knowing. Of letting her kiss him. Then his darkness claws at him. Darkness he knew he had. A deep hatred for someone he can't even separate from himself. It's like fabric tearing apart and being resewn into something new. The man in his body, this cutout of a stranger version of himself fights to have everything but he can’t. He can’t get out. He feels boiling in his veins. They’ll destroy each other and they understand. He understands. 

He’s standing before he can even reason why and walking, more like floating to her. He can't hear himself walk. He looks down at her sleeping. A deep red sea fills his abdomen. The new characteristic he’s become a part of likes that. The obsessive staring; something he's familiar with. But the feelings attached don’t please him. He should know that this is the one thing he’ll have all to himself. Her. Always so trusting. No reading ulterior motives. No distasteful glances. She knew nothing else but him. So who's to say that it's not normal? He shoves the bloodthirst off. He can accept that anyone who stands in the way can stand to die. But she is something reserved. He grapples. With conflicting emotions, all-consuming black pits of remorselessness. Michael. That’s him, he reminds himself. She wakes and he can feel her around him. Everything he’s ever wanted. She worries. A determination settles as he finally decides to stop fighting. Just be for a moment. Touch her skin. Then he can feel bright rage all over. The old man, the meddler. The doctor. Face a twisted sight of weakness. His throat should be cinched but the woman- his wife. Stops him. She must want to get him herself. What will she do? The man leaves with her help and he knows now that she doesn't want to see him gone. Doesn't want police here and he can understand that. Not all of him is happy with that answer. She sleeps and he’s still. 

-

A year passes and he thinks he’s integrated well enough. They can share. He can share. That's better. They're- He's not very good at sharing. It's for the better. For them both. 

There’s a piece of him that doesn't like to talk. Hates the thought. Likes quiet. Likes blood spread all over his hands. He shushes that part. Not worth that 15 years. It's not sated with that response. Didn’t you hate that? So he constantly focuses on other things. Sometimes it slips out but he’s quick to keep it distracted, it nags. The cold demeanor is unbreakable though. A cold front meant to keep meandering useless meat sacks out of his face. Maybe it can be a little quiet now. His arms are like heavy chains around the woman. She sleeps in his grip and he keeps her so close. Michael can feel her breath. She swells and gets smaller. Her body moves and she's waking. He doesn’t want to leave this particular place. He likes the bed. She taps his hand and shifts to face him. Looks into him. She comes closer on her own accord and a spark of something ...nice ignites. To a part of him, it’s a foreign thing. Something good but there's no one laying on the floor in a puddle of red. Is it good? Yes, it’s good, you moron. Wonderful, even. 

When she rises, ambling tiredly to the bathroom, he follows along, much like her shadow. Walking in it. She readies her teeth and he plays along, not wanting her to brush his teeth. Then she fills the bath and he’s already content to think about being in the water with her. It’s quiet. It's so so quiet. Her hands are over him, along with his own hands. Letting her clean him, his hair, and over his skin. A towel on top of his head and he meets her eyes. Like old times. A kiss graces him and he can’t help but want to smile. He wants to but he can’t. 

After the stupid Doctor leaves, regretfully not in a body bag, he creeps away to change into clothes. A scathing comment from his wife. He could probably kill him naked. She feeds him and gives him the sweet drink he likes. It's bitter. 

The steering wheel is gripped in his hands and it’s funny because now he can think about where he learned to drive. Lessons in empty parking lots. Speeding around the neighborhood with the woman. She was younger and enjoyed being with him. Mirthful eyes fixed on him. He loves her so much. Whatever love was, he had it. Mostly. She was an exception. Exception, my ass. She’s been with him for so long. 

He has so many pleasant memories like these, enough to balance years and years of nothing. Silence and quiet rage. Almost unfathomable patience. They're brightened by sitting in the corner of the football field and listening to her talk about her day. Driving her home. Spending days and days and days with her. Now he supposes he can make new memories with her.

Michael glances at the woman. She reads through papers. Slips and files. Organizing each one. He hates the people she talks to. In his thoughts, his bloodthirst, he supposes, mixes with his jealousy. It's cavernous. Immeasurable. A hatred he’s always felt but plugged into a speaker and blasted out in his brain on loop. 

He stares at her as he always has. Charged and his eyes move like water over her but they don’t drip away. He can watch her for hours and hours. Days and days.

\- 

He talks sometimes. When he does, he clears his throat as if he’s afraid it will hurt. Strain. But it comes clear and direct, but somewhat hushed. You listen intently when he speaks. It’s quiet like rain on the roof in the summer. He only talks to you, however. You understood that he didn’t like talking to strangers, even his own family. His mother. Her face when he refused to speak to her is something you would never forget. You didn't even have the heart to tell her that he still could talk, just not to her. Not to his dad. Laurie was even… frightened of him. She confided that she was uncomfortable around him. It wasn’t her older brother anymore. He’s not the same! You would know that better than anyone else. Explaining to his family what had happened was exhausting. You simply had to say that you didn’t know. That he was dealing with his problems and that you would stick by him. They couldn't know the truth, they would never believe it. Your mother questioned what had happened to the man you married, thankfully sparing you an 'I told you so'. You just gave her a look. She might have understood a part of that.

You made him something to eat and watched him nearly choke on it. He patted his chest and you winced. He glanced at you as if he couldn't care less if you thought him rude. You chuckled and picked up a fork eating unhurriedly. You felt strange and hot faced when he watched you like that after he finished. You chewed agonizingly slow and he looked at you blankly but his eyes engaged with your actions. You finished and sat on the couch, laying down and watching some awful game show. Michael is mildly entertained by it but becomes bored with it quickly. Instead, he looks at you. You can see his head turn and you smile at him, turn back to the TV, and grab the remote. The small TV flickers a second and you whisper to Michael. 

“Do you want me to change the channel?” There's a rift of silence and for a long, while you think he won’t say anything but he utters a single

“No.” You nod and put the remote down and you can’t anticipate the random hand over your arm dragging you towards him. You yelp and you're already where he wants you before you can object. Sat over his lap and his arms hold you. It's awkward but he's in an affectionate mood. He needs it, from what you understand, the half of him that is your husband. The half that represents the man doesn't know how. You rest your head on him, relax into him. Michael’s face softens even if just a little and he picks you up in his grip. You gasp and you scold him for scaring you, the smallest of smiles tilting his lips. He lifts you and climbs the stairs and opens the door to your bedroom. You’re confused for a moment but he sets you down on the bed. 

“Michael, are you sleepy?” 

“No.” He tilts his head but stands there without another word. You tilt your head and he tilts back. His hands join yours which are propping you up on the bed. He comes closer to you, his aura swallowing you whole. You bump foreheads with him playfully and he huffs a little. The room is dark, he hadn't turned on the lights, had he. His breath picks up and his hands play with the edge of your shirt. Your face heats up again at the way his fingers run over the skin just under the bottom of your shirt. Your breath hitches. He wants you to take it off. You can see how his hands search upwards and you watch him lean back. 

The fabric is pulled over your elbows and then over your head. Hair ruffles in the motion and the top reveals your bra. He stares again. At your skin, warm but cooling, goosebumps rising all over. Your bra is tugged off and he allows you to slide your hands up hips to his shoulders, the shirt he’s wearing goes over his head as he raises his arms slightly. His body, lean and strong feels good beneath your fingertips. You stroke down over his abdomen, his breathing deepening with your actions. Dramatic inhale followed by an exhale. Bringing him towards you to lay kisses over his belly. Makes him gasp almost too muffled to hear. His happy trail. His pectorals. Lick and kiss his neck. Bite a little into the skin of his shoulder. His hands cover the skin of your waist and hover over your pants. He pulls them slowly as if waiting for you to stop him. Hips tilting upwards invite him to take them off of you entirely and your bare legs erupt in goosebumps again. His finger follows a path up one of your legs and he adjusts your body around his own to hike you up the bed. His pants and belt are rid of in a few seconds and you look up at him, as he sinks into you, like a stone in a river. His hands catch on your underwear, sliding across the fabric that separates him from the warmth within you. His finger hooks into the edge of the cloth on your hip. Very slowly, down your thighs and then over your knees. He doesn't care enough to take them off completely so they hang limply around your ankle, he’s too distracted by the heat between your legs. You gasp and breathe unevenly, panting as his hand hovers over you and then a single finger grazes your entrance. 

It seems exploratory at first, brushing over your clit and then inside of you. You shiver and wiggle a little. It seems out of his usual behavior, opting to usually just sleep but his fingers pump in and out of you, setting fire to all of your nerves. You whimper and bite your thumb nail to use as a bit to keep yourself from being annoyingly loud. But your hand is ripped away from your face. He frowns a little and rubs his finger over the little spot inside of you that has you twitching. Aggressive nearly, even mean with how much he’s flooding your senses with pleasure. You whine and say his name in a tone that oozes with how good he’s making you feel. He stops and comes even closer, face to face with you now. You pant a little, and again his demeanor turns somewhere between awkward and aloof where he looks at your lips. Is he shy? That’s cute. You kiss him, eyes closed, and touch gently landing over his jaw. He’s reluctant but he’s more passionate as he gets lost in it. He forgets the rigid part of himself, the harshness. It's inescapable and he’s gripping too hard on your wrist. His hips gently hump into you, rubbing himself into the plush part of your thigh. It's out of tune with his finger, fingers now, burying themselves into you over and over. You draw him towards you. You mutter his name again and he stiffens up, taking his fingers out of you, burying his head in your neck. He’s so close to you, you can feel him part your legs and touch the tip of himself to the sopping slit. His thumb nudges the flesh apart and he’s slipping his cock inside of you, achingly steady and not at all in a pace that suggests he wants to rush. His hips push forward and his knees are braced on the bed. You lie and wrap your arms around him. His hair tickles your arm and you pet at the wild curls. He turns his head to gaze at your expression, your mouth parted. He grabs your jaw rather roughly and his hand settles over your throat. He looks at you as if he expects something to happen. He’s so deep inside but he’s not moving and you move your hips against him. Hoping to spur him but he’s stubborn. 

“Say it.” You touch the tips of your fingers over his hand on your throat and he puts a thumb over your cheek. 

“My name.” You nod a little. Michael’s unhappy with that and he only moves when you desperately let his name out between soft moans. His cock fills you and suddenly he’s roughly shoving himself in and out of your cunt like he can’t seem to stop. The gush coming from you makes wet sounds that you’re almost embarrassed about but it feels too good to care about that. Your shared bed creaks under Michael's strength and weight, complaining at the constant vicious thrusts. Michael is merely motivated by your clawing and screaming; the noises. He grips your thighs so tight, his tongue licking a path over collar bones and the underside of your jaw to the rhythm of your breathing, the creaking, the squelch from your wetness running down onto the sheets. You moan so loud you feel like you’ll wake the neighbors. Your back arches painfully off the bed. Sweat collects along your skin and you breathe as much air you can get between his punishing thrusts. It feels like he’s hitting your limit and you can’t stop yourself from repeating his name over and over. 

“Michael,” brokenly between moans that mark his pounding pace. He stops, if only for a moment to push your leg up over his arm. He’s back to his previous pace and he’s holding his jaw tense. The veins in his hands pop and small grunts release from the effort he’s using to fuck you. You lose track of how much heat and pressure is trapped in your lower belly until it snaps. Your legs clench and fall open, you shiver and twitch. 

He doesn't stop, just slows down. He’s consuming every reaction you have to give. You let him. He builds his pace up again, squeezing at your thighs, your hips, your waist, and your breasts, bruises, and small circular-shaped markings sure to be scattered everywhere on you in the morning. He pulls you up by your hips and lets your shoulder blades stay on the bed, your hips held up with his strength. You ragdoll. Limply trusting him to not hurt you. He huffs and rests his forehead on your breastplate, his pants muffled into your skin. Back bowed over your form. His teeth raze over flesh and bite hard sometimes but they're love bites. They make you gasp and it's like a dangerous animal play-biting your hand. His hips slow down and it's just you and him. No one else on earth. In his eyes, you can see him, the man you fell in love with and part of the man who scares you. Makes you feel like he holds your life in his hands. And you break again around him like a melting square of chocolate in a palm. He thrusts harder and keeps a perfect pace until his hips snap forward with too much force it shoves you up the bed. You choke and he puts his hand around your throat. Cum fills you and your walls pulse raw around him, clenching irregularly. He moans, just once and with a cut off groan he finishes deep into you. You gasp at the pain and unstable quality your legs seem to have, weightless and too heavy all at once. He readjusts his body into lying over you. You can feel his hair tickle you and his heavy form settle next to you. Warmth drips from you and you sigh. 

“I love you, Michael.” His hand hovers over your chest for a moment and you hold it. Each bone and sinew outlined by your gentle touch. He nudges a little nearer to you and he loves you. Loves you so brutally. 

He’s so peaceful when he’s sleeping and he’s breathing so slow you know he’s sleeping. The pad of your index finger traces the forking scar over his eye and cheekbone. You stare at him and wonder if one day. If he loses control over the part of him that killed his sister and tried to kill Laurie. What will you do? You think... you can't. You don’t want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH. Ok, it's over, for now, lmao idk when I'll get the alternate ending out but I hope it'll be soon. I'm such a sap, when it comes to Michael I'm just like in tears and screaming. I got a nice Michael in dbd last night and I was essentially sobbing. Anyway, thank you for sticking around and for reading and for clicking on this steaming pile of trash. :) Let me know if you liked it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Thanks for any kudos or comments!!! Anyway, til next chapter!


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